Skin the Wolfe
by griffon
Summary: Following 7:20 Ivan Sarnoff is in prison, but his mob is alive and kicking and they want the skin of CSI Wolfe. In order to save his own skin and to take some pressure off Lt.H.Caine, Wolfe decides to disappear for a while...
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** 'CSI: Miami' is a registered trademark of CBS Productions and Alliance Atlantis Communications. No copyright infringement is intended or contained on this story. The author understands and recognizes the right of CBS to enforce ownership of these trademarks, and does not dispute this. The author believes that everything within this novel falls within the fair use clause of Trademarks and Copyrights, and pledges full cooperation with CBS to protect its trademarks. The author is in no way affiliated or recognized by CBS. No money is made with this story. It is just written for fun and entertainment._

**_A Short Summary of Skin the Wolfe_**

_After 7:20 Ivan Sarnoff is in prison, but his mob is very much alive and avid to take their revenge upon Horatio Caine and his team. Under the authority of Sarnoff's second in command, a green light is placed on CSI Wolfe and a hitman picks up his trail. In order to save his skin, Wolfe is forced to play a dangerous and rather esoteric game with his shadow that will lead him across the Atlantic Ocean and into Europe, where some European colleagues seem to have similar problems with the Russian mafia and are more then willing to help...._

_While Horatio and Frank Tripp try to figure out, how one of their CSIs could disappear from the surface of the planet, CSI Miami meets the Organised Crimes Division of the Paris Criminal Police in an exciting game of hide and seek with the Paris brand of the Russian Mob._

**Prologue-The Debt Collector**

The young man opened the back door of his beautifully restored 1966 Ford Mustang, bend down , took the small dog and put him on a comfortably fluffy blanket. Then he helped the elderly woman into the car. " Just a short phone call, Babushka, and we'll be off to the shopping mall!" He told her kindly.

The woman returned his smile, strapped on her safety belt and folded her wrinkled hands contently in her lap. She was extremely fond of her Alijosha. He did so well in his business in Miami and he took good care of her. And he was a beautiful boy! His father and mother would have been extremely proud of Alexeij, had they lived to see his success story in America.

Alexeij Danilenko smiled at his granny through the car's windscreen and pushed the speed dial button on his cell phone.

He loved the old woman dearly and enjoyed it thoroughly to spoil her rotten. No money in the world was enough to pay back what she had done for him!

He still remembered his difficult childhood days after his father had succumbed to a cancer caused by exposition to radioactive material on his submarine and his mothers long, slow decline into alcoholism, that had ended with a tremendously bloody suicide and himself left to the graces of Russia's failing social security system and gory orphanages.

If not for Babushka Marja, Alijosha would have never made it.

His father's mother – although dirty poor then and hardly able to provide for herself- had taken in the orphaned child and worked her hands off in Nizhnevartovsk Neftegaz Maintenance Plant in order to give him decent food, decent clothes and a decent education.

Almost immediately after his graduation from Western Siberia State University as a computer specialist, Aljiosha had taken the opportunity to leave behind post-Soviet misery and slip away to the United States and sunny Miami. His sponsor had been an old friend of his soldier father Valentin, Ivan Sarnoff, ex-KGB and a man of principles - who had managed to make the best of both worlds and a large profit from the decline of the USSR.

As soon as Aljiosha had made a place for himself in Ivan's business, he had taken the utmost care to get his granny out of post-Communist Russia and into warm and sunny Miami.

It had been very pleasing to see, that Ivan Sarnoff approved his choice and had been very supportive in making Babushka Marija, her small dog and the six dustbin cats she'd brought with her from Nizhnevartovsk at home in the Sunshine State.

"Slushaiju"

Aljosha immediately identified his correspondent as Sarnoff's second in command Vladimir Nevzorov. Valodija was the owner of fancy and legendary Miami beach restaurant "The Forge".

"The vet and his son have left together with two plain clothes officers. I suppose they are and the slug managed to get them into witness protection." He explained immediately. He was still furious with this preposterous underpaid, redhead CSI lieutenant who had tricked Ivan into a prison cell and it was only with the utmost difficulty that Alexeij Danilenko managed to keep hatred out of his voice and stay professional with Nevzorov. If it would have been for him only, he would not have taken 'Babushka' and the dog, but rather a sniper's rifle in order to rid them of Caine.

"Otlitshno" – "Very good!" Nevzorov replied in a professional voice. "I do not care about that vet and his offspring. Let them go!"

"The little Wolfe in Sheep's clothing did not follow Caine back into the building!" Aliosha explained. "He is heading for his car. Seems as if he had a hard night and a pretty hard day."

"Even better!" The anonymous voice on the cell phone replied."That one is ripe for collecting. I see to it that he never sees another sunrise!"

Alexeij Danilenko chuckled. " You are ready, Valodija?"

"As ready as can be!" The other man answered in Russian." Everything is in place. That slimy little bastard is in for the worst moment of his god-damned existence. He took the debt of the vet and now he shall pay it…with interests! I get things moving and you take care of Babushka!"

Danilenko laughed softly, closed his cell phone and pushed it into the pocket of his Gucci jacket. He was heavenly satisfied with Nevzorov's reply. Now he could take Babushka out for a nice shopping at the mall. Nevzorov would send out the 'bratjia' to Ryan Wolfe's place in order to explain to the preposterous Irish shit what it meant to interfere with their business. And as soon as he was back at his own place, he'd take care of Caine personally.

Ivan Sarnoff was in prison, but this did not mean that Ivan Sarnoff was powerless and subdued. The "bratjia" never gave up. They always got what they wanted and he would see personally to it, that would pay dearly for his lack of respect.

Alexeij Danilenko took the driver's seat of his Ford Mustang, pecked a gentle kiss on his Babushka's check and turned the ignition key. In the mirror he observed CSI Ryan Wolfe driving out of his parking space. The stubborn Irish bastard would pay for his lack of obedience and for the life of their brother …the one that Horatio Caine had taken down earlier today, when freeing Marc Gantry's flee-ridden puppy….and before the end the Wolfe in Sheep's clothing would scream for death!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1 - The Wolfe Skin

*

Marc and the boy were gone. Ryan Wolfe gave a deep sigh. The black limousine had driven off and nobody would ever know, where the former track veterinarian and Billy would make a new start: Marc would tell them everything he knew about Sarnoff's activities in Miami and in exchange for intelligence the Feds would give his friend and the child a new start.

He hoped that Marc would take this last chance. He hoped, that in the future the man would keep his fingers off cocaine, racing horses and gambling. He hoped that Marc had been worth the risk and the pain!

Ryan Wolfe felt that he was alone.

Horatio had gone back into the building: No reproaches for what he had done, no admonitions to chose his friends more carefully, no questions about how he felt after an impromptu abduction, countless lonely hours of excruciating physical pain, an extremely stressful working day, the child's desperate cry on the phone and the gunshot, the icy attitude of Caleigh and Delko.....No questions!

Ryan shrugged his shoulders.

He was beyond caring. His personal feelings did not count. What counted were the two lives: Billy was safe. Marc was safe.....and Caine was gone!

He had been trough the mill. His broken ribs hurt like hell. His face hurt. The cuts on his chest hurt. His head hurt and his adrenaline level was going down at high speed, now that the pressure was off and the critical situation was over.

The one thing that kept him on his feet at this very moment was some kind of stubborn personal pride. But he had no clue, how long this could last. He was not so good an actor......and he did not care that much for personal pride!

Caine was gone. He had not asked him to stay. He had not dismissed him either. Ryan Wolfe felt suddenly that staying was not the best option. Under his multiple layers of clothing he felt soft, warm blood running over ice cold skin. The rather flashy dark violet shirt and grey jacket would not keep it much longer from the eyes of his rather perceptive colleagues....and he knew for certain that he did not want one thing tonight: Compassion!

Ever since he had replaced Tim Speedle in this team, they had made it very clear to him that he was the fifth wheel on the cart: They accepted him, because of his professional competences, but nobody was tremendously happy to have him on board. He was the outsider, the one who'd never fit into their tight-knit, cosy little family. Thinking of it: Sarnoff had orchestrated the stalking of Horatio's team. They had all been in danger from the Russian mobster and his soldiery. Notwithstanding that fact, nobody -Horatio included - had cared to call and check up on him, after he had gone to track down that paparazzi photographer Cameron West! Nobody had realized that a pretty big CSI vehicle had gone missing together with a CSI officer for a full 12 hours.

He opened the door of his car and slipped onto the driver's seat, careful not to inflict more pain on his already battered body. Turning the key, he was pondering for a moment on his options: He could either go to the next hospital emergency and have them check out his broken ribs and other reminiscences of Sarnoff's personal attention or he could simply go home, slip under his blankets and lick his wounds.

Somehow he did not feel like facing doctors and nurses. They'd ask questions, write reports and give him a handful of painkillers he would not swallow anyhow. They'd even come to the conclusion to keep him in for the night and tell his employer that he was not up for duty for at least a fortnight.

Ryan Wolfe drew his car from the CSI parking lot onto the street. He would not have minded a fortnight away from his loving and caring colleagues, Horatio included.

Lt. Caine's fake demise and surprising resurrection a few months ago still sat badly with the CSI. In order to prevent Delko from having career problems or unpleasant encounters with Stetler and the IAB, Horatio had chosen Ryan to organise his spectacular "death": The loose gun that had nothing to lose!

After having been kicked from the lab and then reinstated by the good graces of one Horatio Caine, Ryan knew that his boss had cashed in on that very debt for his showdown on the airfield.

Horatio Caine-Debt Collector!

Well, these were the rules of the game: Like them or hate them, he had to play by them if he wanted to keep his job..... Wolfe liked his job and he had accepted Horatio's conditions unflinchingly. So there was nothing to complain about!

Today, Caine had once more made it very clear to Wolfe that there was another debt to pay: Hiding evidence and stalling a murder enquiry were as good as a death sentence in the lab......He had told Horatio, that he would willingly go to the gallows as soon as Billy Gantry was out of danger. But once again, his boss had chosen to refuse immediate payback. There would be another day, another case, another situation, but it was as certain as the daily Miami sun rise; his boss would come knocking on his door one day and claim another due!

Wolfe slid his car into a convenient, empty place directly in front of his small house on NW34th Terrace. Apart human resources and Horatio, none of his co-workers knew that he could afford such a luxurious place in one of Miami's fancier locations, bordering Robert Clemente Park and the heart of the town's art district.

He had always been extremely careful about his private life. Besides their natural animosity for him, since he had dared to replaced the deceased Tim Speedle, his living in one of the more fashionable areas of the town and relative financial ease would only have brought up curious questions. Something like "How can an ex-copper afford a two-stories 1830 building, perfectly renovated and with a garden or something like that......

He dragged his mangled body out of his dark green Land Rover....another potential "question marker" with the CSI Miami Tim Speedle fan club, who had not even bothered to try and ring him up last night.

Habitually Ryan did not take his personal car to come to work but preferred Miami-Dade's wonderful public transport system. Easier, no traffic jams, no parking problems and first and foremost no nosy enquiries from his co-workers about the financial resources to afford a European car.

He suppressed a bitter laugh, thinking of his broken ribs and another rush of pain he'd gladly avoid: Caleigh most certainly would have suspect him to have taken up gambling once again.

As if it this was any of her business!

Well, it had been a huge mistake indeed and rather undiplomatic to hide his fondness for the occasional poker game from Caine. Wolfe was perfectly aware of the fact that such past times were not convenient for someone in his line of business. It made him potentially vulnerable to various types of blackmail....he should have rather opted for golf or tennis. But it was nonetheless his business how he spent certain evenings of the week and his money. Notwithstanding the fact that he gambled, he also paid his gambling debts like a gentleman....with legal money that was his and had come to him under most legal circumstances.

Ok, they could still hold against him that he'd never told them where the money came from....but this too, was no business of the Tim Speedle Fan Club and the irreproachable Horatio Caine of unnumbered loves and several secret off springs.

Wolfe chuckled softly. He was getting dangerously close to forget his good upbringing and manners: Kicking out verbally -even if it was only done within the secret garden of his mind- was petty and unbecoming. Even a rough night with a henchman of Ivan Sarnoff was no excuse for such utterly childish behaviour.

He straightened himself, pushed his unbecoming thoughts and physical discomfort to a far off place of his brain and walked up the stairs to his house as if nothing had happened. He even managed to force a little smile upon his face: He'd get himself a nice, warm shower, change bandages and then find himself to some nice, little restaurant for a bite. Perhaps, if he had the courage, he'd go for some vernisage in one of the art shops that bordered Clemente Park and if not, he'd simply spend the evening on his sunny terrace with a cup of coffee and yesterday's edition of 'Le Figaro'.

Wolfe opened the front door, dropped his house and car keys into a small wicker basket and dragged himself in a slightly lighter mood to his kitchen. The shower and change of clothes would wait. He was suddenly dying for a strong, little espresso and some of those Belgian cream pralines his father and almost step-mother had sent him a couple of days ago via the slightly tormented circuit of a friend in Chicago and a European relation in Washington D.C. down to Miami.

Almost instantly he froze. Something was not right in his house! Something had changed since this morning. A most curious sweet smell hung in the air and his sensitive ears heard a soft , far-away buzzing.....the buzzing of....flies!

He forgot about the espresso, the pralines and his overwhelming desire to take a lengthy and hot shower and drew his 9 mm SIG-Sauer P228. Like a hunting dog, he sniffed the air. The strange, sweet smell drifted down from the second floor.

He lowered the SIG's security with a silent movement of the thumb. Then he crept upstairs. He felt a knot tightening in his stomach. Basic survival instinct told CSI Wolfe that something was very, very wrong. The sweet smell became more prominent. He did not even check the guest room and the upstairs bathroom. He knew exactly that the soft buzzing of flies and sweet smell came from his bedroom and his instinct told him that what he would find inside was no longer alive. His SIG at the ready he carefully opened the door.

Wolfe had seen his share of horrors; already as a cop on the streets of Miami he had been confronted with the basest human instincts and the most atrocious crimes. Since he had joined Caine's CSI team, things had gone from bad to worse and he had been convinced that there was hardly anything left that would give him a sudden envy to throw up. He lowered the security of the SIG and laid the weapon on a small cherry wood gueridon by the door. Then he gave a small sigh, closed his eyes for an instant and shook his head.

He had seen his share of horrors and compared to most of them, the freshly skinned, bleeding carcass of what may have been either a very large dog of the German shepherd type or a relatively small wolf surrounded by a swarm of buzzing black flies was at the most disgusting, at the least, slightly ridiculous. But the message inscribed in blood upon the wall of his bed chamber was not. It was very clear, very straight forward and not open to whatsoever interpretation. Sarnoff, from his prison cell in the Miami Correctional Centre at Bunker Hill made it very clear against what he was up now.....a bounty of 2 million US dollars for the lucky Russian mobster, who'd manage to cull him.

For a short instant, Wolfe's hand moved towards the cell phone on his belt. Then he thought better, closed his eyes for a moment once more, shook his head and left the bedroom, closing the door softly over the gory scene.

It was completely useless to call Caine and bring the whole bunch over to his place. This was perhaps even the intention of Sarnoff's henchmen who had arranged this nasty scene. Wolfe took the cell phone from his belt, switched it off and put it on a cupboard. Then he went down to the first floor of his home. He placed his SIG in the drawer of the cupboard by the door and closed it carefully. Then he went to the kitchen, opened another drawer and took a small silver key that had been taped under its bottom. Instead of leaving his house by the front door, he went to the back door that led into the gardens. One of the many good things about his place was this possibility to directly walk from the gardens into the lush, tropical greenery of Robert Clemente Park through an old wrought iron gate hidden behind a centenary red azalea bush.

He gave his watch a cursory glance. With a little bit of luck he'd make it to his safe deposit box at the BNP Paribas on South Biscayne Boulevard. The IRS was so tremendously keen watching the Swiss UBS and trying to crack the Swiss banking secrets that none of those guys would ever have thought about paying attention to the Miami branch of a French bank.

Wolfe blessed the day when in a rush of filial disobedience he had thrown his father's advise overboard and rented the deposit box at BNP Paribas.

**Dear Readers: Please bear with me: English is NOT my native language. You can flame whatever you like, but please do not tell me that my grammar is a bit shaky….If you feel a strong desire to correct my mistakes, you are most welcome to beta my story!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2 - The Hunter's Game**

Vladimir Nevzorov listened attentively to the report. It was short, snappy and to the point.

He appreciated men who were able to put their thoughts together in a straight line and Timofeij Belkin was such a man...one of their best and with great potential to rise in the 'bratstvo'.

This potential was exactly the reason why Nevzorov had entrusted Belkin with the 'Wolfe Hunt': He wanted to see the man handle such type of business and would decide upon the end result if Timofeij's time for promotion from soldier to officer rank in their organisation had come.

"So he reacted exactly as predicted?" Nevzorov asked.

"Yes, Vladimir Sergueivitsch! He did not call his boss and his colleagues so they could have a look upon that pretty mess we left in his bed room and try to figure things out. Neither did he stop at a doctor's or a hospital.....He has also left his duty cell phone and service weapon behind. The cell has been switched off! I believe, that Irish shit will try and handle the situation on his own....no help proposed, no help given! He is in no good physical shape. Last night shows......he's been nicely bloodied, even if he is not yet broken. But it should not take too long before he is sufficiently exhausted......"

Nevzorov chuckled softly: Alijosha Danilenko was perhaps not the most violent of Ivan Sarnoff's lieutenants, but he was a hell of a profiler, when it came to analysing their enemies' minds and ruthlessly stripping their souls off their most intimate secrets.

It had been Alijosha's idea to target Ryan Wolfe first in order to stir up Lt. Horatio Caine's nasty little CSI team. This choice had been based upon a very thorough enquire:

Eric Delko with his incriminating biological father, ex-CIA black ops and longstanding member of the 'bratstvo' would have been -on first sight- a much better and easier target, would it not have been for Horatio Caine's very special attitude towards the man, who had once been his brother-in-law.

Nevzorov and even Ivan Sarnoff had been greatly surprised, when Alexeij Danilenko had revealed to them the full extent of his Delko-enquiry and the lengths to which Horatio Caine had gone over the last couple of years to protect the guy from IAB, ICE and even from himself, when he slipped over Delko's tendency to womanise without a thought.

Delko had been sleeping carelessly through the entire female staff of Caine's lab, had been sending 'tooths' to half of Miami's female population under the age of 60, even loosing his badge after one such anonymous encounter and now he was bumping Caine's second in command Caleigh Duquesne literally with the lieutenant's blessing and against the carved-in-stone MDPD policy that work and relationship were to stay strictly separate.

The cherry on the cream cake had been Danilenko's clever taping of an eye-to-eye discussion between Caine and Delko, following the Lieutenant's faked death in order to allow Caine to go undercover and apprehend a major ammunition distributor in Miami:

Horatio had had the nerve to tell his little favourite in person that the decision to include Wolfe over him was due in no small part to Caine's own desire to protect Eric and his career at the Lab should the undercover operation prove unsuccessful. And Alijosha Danilenko had each and every incriminating word and every incriminating gesture of the red-headed boss of the Miami CSI day shift on a nice video tape that lay well hidden in the 'bratstvo's' safe now.......

Danilenko's Caleigh Duquesne-investigation had shown similar results to the 'Eric-Delko-File" and an even more protective attitude towards her from the side of Horatio Caine.

With great surprise the executive floor of the 'bratstvo' had gone through the profile of the Southern Belle, her love life being perhaps even more embarassing from a professional point of view, then Delko's.

Following a brief stint with some US Marine Corps Ops sniper, Miss Duquesne had been through Detective John Hagen, former partner of Horatio's deceased brother Raymond Caine and who had committed suicide in Caleighs ballistics lab.

Next on the line had been an undercover ATF agent -Jake Berkley- whom she dumped heartlessly, nothwithstanding the fact that the very same Berkley exonerated Calleigh when her professional career was seriously at stake from an IAM investigation following a shooting in which she was involved.

Next -or rather in between came Peter Eliott, a Secret Service agent from the Financial Crimes Division whom she had been playing skillfully against poor John Hagen....well, Eliott had finally dumped Duquesnes and gone off to brighter and less stressful shores, but nonetheless: Caleigh seemed very much encline to continue with her complicated love life....now having fished CSI Eric Delko from the pool of availiable males at the MDPD and bringing potential stuff for strife directly into the heart of Horatio Caine's day shift team.......and once again, instead of putting his foot down and setting things right, all that Caine was doing was covering up for his second in command and his personal favourite CSI!

In the end, after having thoroughly studied Danilenko's work on Caine's team, he and Sarnoff had established a hit list: Horatio himself would be the last: They had such a giant amount of incriminating things on Caine that they'd perhaps even be able to rid themselves of the man without pulling a trigger.

The 'bratstvo' was not only very competent when it came to chose and send out most competent and devote killers. They were also gloriously gifted, when it came to superb blackmail.

The organisation had the means and the patience to wind whomsoever up to the point that he'd either bend or blow out his own brains....and this was the destiny Ivan Sarnoff desired for Horatio Caine; he wanted him either on his knees and bending his head low to the 'bratstvo' or dead by his very own hand and discredited in the eyes of the entire MDPD.

They would go for Duquesnes right before Caine. She was second to last on the list. Delko would be destroyed right before her. Then Frank Tripp, Natalia BoaVista and Price in descending order.

Danilenko had understood immediately, that it would be easiest to separate CSI Wolfe from Horatio Caine's pack: It was always easiest for a hunter to separate the weakest animal, the one that none of the others would defend or miss immediately ........and furthermore, Ivan Sarnoff wanted Wolfe down, because the man had been quintessential in Caine's set up that had sent him to BunkerHill.

Nevzorov ordered Belkin to follow the track of his target and assured the henchman, that he'd send a discreet team of efficient cleaning personnel to Wolfe's house in order to make disappear the messy set-up in the CSI's bedchamber.

They had no intention to leave red herrings behind. Ivan Sarnoff had been clear about this: They were to take up Caine's pack one by one until finally, the Lieutenant himself would be completely alone and ripe for slaughter.

He motioned to one of his bodyguards: "You go with the cleaning team, Piotr! Make sure that they do a good job. See to it that the surveillance cameras are removed from Wolfe's place and bring his duty cell phone and service weapon immediately to Danilenko. He needs the cell phone within the next two hours for Phase Two of our plan.'

The body guard inclined his head respectfully: "Whatever you say shall be done, Vladimir Sergueivitsch!"

**Sorry, had to correct this chapter and the next.....there was a coherence problem with some of the characters' names!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3 - Wolfe on the Run**

Ryan Wolfe crossed Clemente Park at a leisurely pace that did not betray his inner turmoil.

He knew exactly what he would do now, but he could not afford to make even the slightest mistake. A gut feeling told him, that someone followed in his steps. With a bounty of 2 Million. US Dollars it would have been surprising, if none of Ivan Sarnoff's henchman were already on the move.

He left Clemente Park and took a small side street that led to Old San Juan section of Wynwood, commonly known as "El Barrio". This was a shortcut to Miami's downtown business district and the BNP Paribas branch. He could have also taken the shortcut through Margaret Pace Park in the very heart of the city, but survival instinct told him, that the one that followed in his steps may be tempted to an easy assault and kill in the midst of lush, tropical greenery.

Wolfe knew perfectly well that at this very moment and in his diminished physical state he was not up for a fight. He had to bid time! His shadow would soon enough realise that it was not always possible to follow one's prey right into its den.

He smiled and gave his watch another discreet glance: The BNP would close in about an hour. He decided to make a quick stop at one of the small shops in "El Barrio" to buy a HOP 1800 disposable pre-charged cell phone for 10 Dollars together with a pre-paid SIM card. He had first seen these smart little cell phones when visiting his father and soon-to-be step mother over Christmas.

With no contracts, you just walk into a retailer and pick one of these phones up and use any SIM card, or purchase a pre-paid SIM card and pop it into the phones were the bare minimum with no memory card, or camera, or any fancy schmancy features. Not only did they lack all the features available on just about every phone on the market, they also lacked a screen. There was no LCD display screen of any kind on this curious phone, just a big speaker.

As even the dullest Russian mobster could imagine, this made it impossible to know who was calling or if you accidentally dialled the wrong number. Actually this phone was perfect for all those refusing to come out of the Stone Age and still have a landline phone with no caller ID.

He pushed the SIM into the HOP 1800 and dialled a number he'd learned by heart. In rapid French, he requested Business Class for the non-stop to Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport, gave the lady on the other end a passport and credit card number, requested a seat by the window and confirmed, that he would carry only hand luggage. This gave him another 30 minutes of time. The deal was quickly done and over and Wolfe retrieved the SIM card from the HOP 1800, broke it into fuor tiny pieces and dropped them discretely into a dustbin.

The shadow that followed him was close. He could literally feel the predator's eyes on his back. He took a sharp turn to the left, then another to the right and took the opportunity to jump nimbly into a Metrobus that was just about to close its doors.

He flipped the driver some coins, took his ticket and went immediately to the rear, a broad grin on his face. That would give "predator" a nasty bone to chew on. The next stop of the Metrobus was already in sight and Wolfe pushed the bell in order to get off the transportation and continue his way to the bank.

***

Alijosha Danilenko carried the last purchases of 'Babushka' into her cosy little house. She was already preparing tea and chattering along happily with her dog and cats. The Hispanic sweetie he had hired a couple of months ago to help Baba, clean the house and make the old woman comfortable gave him a smile and stretched her hands out to take one of the bags.

"You should have told me, Mister Alex!" She admonished Sarnoff's lieutenant with a smile. "Why do you carry all these heavy things alone!"

Alijosha laughed pleasantly:" Ramona, there is no problem with some bags. It is not your job to catch and carry....."

She replied with a soft chuckle. This job was really the very best thing that had happened to her in a long while.

Miss Marja was a kind and grateful old lady with no bad habits or vices and young Mister Alex paid her a very decent salary together with social security and even a small pension fund. He gave her money for transport, saw to the welfare of her two young brothers and always behaved like a perfect gentleman.

In exchange for his good graces he only asked of her to take good care of Miss Marja, the house and the pets and to keep her mouth shut. Not a big deal, when she compared him to all the other people she had been working for, since she'd managed to leave the poverty and despair of her Puerto Rican homeland.

Mister Alex did not even look at her in an inconvenient manner or make any of these disgusting allegations other employers have made to her.

"Come now! Marja Fejodorovna backed you a wonderful cake this morning. I have already set the table in the gardens and you must take some rest. I am sure that before taking her out, you have been working since sundown!"

Alijosha Danilenko smiled and gave in. He was a master of minds and once more he had made a perfect choice. Ramona Sanchez had been a good choice. He passed her the last remaining bag and went over to the garden table, she'd indicated. He was indeed a little bit fagged: The Wolfe Hunt had been most strenuous business!

He flung himself into a comfortable chair, gave a deep breath, took his cell phone from the pocket of his Gucci jacket and pushed the speed dial for Valodija Nevzorov: " How's going?" He asked in Russian as soon as the other man replied.

"Otlitshno! Timofeij is on his heels and Piotr has retrieved his duty cell and his SIG from the house. They are cleaning up the blood and other traces and I suggest that you launch your offensive on Lieutenant Caine. Piotr is on his way...."

Danilenko laughed: "Heavens, we will have fun with the Irish bastard and his boss. I wish Ivan were here to enjoy it all together with us."

"Do not worry Alijosha!" Nevzorov replied." I keep Ivan posted and he is waiting impatiently for 'Babushka Marja's weekly visit and his cake. I am sure your granny will be more then capable of slipping him the pretty photos of CSI Wolfe in our clutches. He will appreciate the nice work of Dimitrij Parfonovitsch.....!"

Danilenko blushed on the other end of the line. The nice work of Dimitrij Parfonovitsch had been a 12 hours non-stop torturing of CSI Wolfe in the gloomy premises of an abandoned factory the "bratstvo" owned for such purposes in the vicinity of the Everglades.

He had been a direct spectator of Wolfe's trial minus the stink of blood, sweat and fear. Everything was possible with IT and a good web cam and he was still desirous of throwing up, when thinking of the nightly showdown.

"Alijosha, Alijosha, my brother...." He heard Nevzorov laugh," I am fully aware that you do not like this kind of late night show......but consider: Ivan will enjoy!"

Danilenko closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, indeed. Ivan Sarnoff liked this type of muscle play in the same sense he liked gory movies like "Apocalypse Now" or "Saving Soldier Ryan", but this made it not easier for him to bear blood, sweat and tears.

He was a scientist and computer wizard, not a professional killer....he'd do everything for Ivan....if only Ivan would spare him seeing this type of bloodshed over and over again.

"Sorry, Valodija,..." He replied demurely," ....but you understand that I am a little bit partial...."

"Oh, forget about it, Alijosha! I am sorry that I had to inflict this gore upon you...I know, you do not like it..."

"Stop it, my friend! It is nothing...I will endure whatever is necessary to get Ivan out of Bunker Hill,. He is like a father to me. I cannot bear seeing him behind bars and in the clutches of these bastards."

Nevzorov gave a deep sigh. He did like Alexeij Danilenko and he was fully aware that the younger man was completely devoted to Ivan. He would try and give him a small break...."Listen, Alijosha," he said, "You do that job with Wolfe's boss and then I buy you a nice diner and you take a couple of days off from this whole business. I think that we can handle everything from now on thanks to your enquiries and investigations. And you come back, when you feel up to it..."

Danilenko shook his head. No, he was no coward and he would do whatever necessary to get Ivan out of Bunker Hill and Caine and his pack thoroughly punished for their deed. "Forget it Serguei! I do not need a break. We are in on this and we go together....to the end. I want Ivan back. That is all that matters."

Nevzorov nodded on the other side of the line. This was his boy! Alijosha the scientist and computer wizard was completely disgusted and in a state of turmoil, but Alijosha the 'brother' did not care for his feelings. His priority was the 'bratstvo and Sarneff....nothing else was important....They had made an excellent choice when Ivan decided to give the boy a legs up and helped him out of Russia!

***

Wolfe had left the Metro bus and was marching with speed and determination towards the BNP Parisbas branch. Still 25 minutes left before the French bank would close shop for the day. His beaten body was hurling with rage. The broken ribs were torment and the cuts on his chest and back were burning like fire. His weaker half yearned for a shower, some food and a cosy bed, but his stronger half -the stubborn Irish genes of his father- pushed him forward. He'd make it. He knew! He could not afford to allow his weaker side to win over. This was neither Boston University, nor the Police Academy nor some fool's game within CSI and Horatio's team. This was different and the prize to pay was neither academic honours, nor his reputation within the MDPD nor his job in the CSI.....the prize was his life and he would not willingly give it up.

He pushed the security button on the BNP Parisbas branch door and stepped inside. He gave a court smile to the receptionist and stated his business. As soon as he was with the deposit box manager, he showed his driver's licence and the small silvery key and followed the man down to the basement and the deposit boxes. It took Wolfe hardly 5 minutes to gather his Irish EC Passport on the name of Ryan-Padraig Wolfe-O'Briain, the US Dollars and Euros in cash, the French Visa credit card and a key to a locker at Miami's AMTRAK bus station.

He replaced the items with his US IDs, the empty HOP 1800 disposable cell phone and his MDPD ID and closed the safe deposit box. Then he left BNP Parisbas Miami branch and hurried to the close-bye AMTRAK bus station were a readily prepared hand luggage waited for him in a locker.

He had one hour and 30 minutes before the Air France 95 direct from MIA to Charles de Gaulle Airport would take off. He could afford to arrive 30 minutes before the flight would close down. He had to make it through Customs and security checks...his schedule was tight, but he he'd manage....manage without being seen and without leaving whatsoever traces for the ones like Ivan Sarnoff's henchmen and his very own colleagues of the CSI Miami!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4 Serious Matters

*

Timofeij Parfonovitsch Belkin was furious. The little Irish shit had outwitted him!

Apparently Wolfe had been perfectly aware of the fact that someone followed him and the trick with the bus had been pretty brilliant. His target could jump off at the next station or ride to the very end of the line....he'd never know. Hardly had the hunt opened and already the deer was disappearing deep within the jungle of Miami.

Belkin signalled a taxi. It was absolutely not an option to call Nevzorov: Calling his boss was almost as good as signing his own death sentence! He had to think hard....and pretty quickly. Get himself into the shoes of the CSI. What would he do if he were in Wolfe's place....."You follow that Metrobus, man!" He told the taxi driver in perfect American English with the adequate accent of a Southerner from Florida.

"No problem!" The cab driver replied and wheeled in behind the bus.

It was already at the next bus stop that Belkin's prey descended and disappeared in one of the side streets of Miami's business district. The Russian smiled. Wolfe was clever, but he was also predictable: The CSI obviously had perfectly well understood the message written in blood upon the wall of his bedchamber and he was acting accordingly: Belkin was betting his right hand that next thing Wolfe would do, was to disappear inside one of the banks, empty his bank account and then try and get his ass out of Miami and as far away from the "bratstvo" as humanly possible.

The little Irish shit was a smart bastard....much smarter then his boss, Lieutenant Horatio Caine, who had challenged Ivan Sarnoff and obviously did not understand against whom he was up.

Belkin staid a little behind. No need to get too close to Wolfe. There were six options on South Biscayne Boulevard. He'd simply wait at the corner of SE2nd Street and the boulevard and keep an eye on all the banks.

**

Horatio Caine was having a well merited coffee and sandwich at the MDPD cafeteria. They had two more pawns of Sarnoff's organisation on their way to prison and another of his lieutenants was down. Cross-checking with emigration he had found out that Billy Gantry's kidnapper had been a certain Dimitrij Pavlovitsch Belkin from the city of Moscow, former officer in the Russian Armed Forces, PhD in Mechanical Engineering from Moscow State University Lomonossow and naturalised an American citizen 5 years ago under the name of Nick Belkin. The deceased Nick Delkin had a younger Brother Timofeij, also ex-Russian Armed Forces and now his partner in an import-export business in Coral Gables that was probably nothing else then another camouflage of Ivan Sarnoff's tentacular mafia organisation.

Horatio was deeply satisfied with today's work: Three down, a young child saved from the clutches of the Russian mob. He had send Eric and Caleigh home after they had concluded their parts of the investigation.

The two merited a little respite and some peaceful hours together. He was happy that Delko had finally admitted his feelings for Miss Duquene and settled down with her. Eric's philandering and womanising had always been a risky thing that in the long run might have endangered his career in the crim lab. And Caleigh merited a good man by her side after all her drawbacks with Hagen, Eliott and Berkley.

He finished his sandwich. Tonight he would allow himself an early break. He gave his watch a casual glance. It was still possible to go home for a shower and a change and then drop in on the garden party of Judge Ewan McGregor. He knew that program director of Miller School of Medicine at the University of Miami, Dr. John Harris was a close friend of Judge McGregor's wife Sarah and would therefore be at the party.

He intended to use his connections to the judge and his good reputation as one of the bosses of the Miami Crime Lab to get his son Kyle into the newly created undergraduate Program in Biomedical Science.

Since Kyle lacked the necessary entry qualifications he'd need a darn good push from someone like Dr. Harris himself in order to pass the admission committee. His internship at the crime lab with Price and some letters of recommendations from some well-placed friends here and there would do the trick and get Kyle settled for good.

Horatio took the keys of one of the silver CrimeLab hummers from the receptionist board, when his cell phone rang and woke him from his musings. Wolfe calling. He gave a small sigh. What could have to say at almost 7:00 pm after having disappeared from the lab in the early afternoon without even asking permission. He took the call. "Lieutenant Horatio Caine! What can I do for you ? "

The voice of his troublesome CSI on the other end was slightly subdued. "H., I am sorry. I wanted to tell you....well, I saw a doctor and he gave me a check up and ...well, I have a couple of badly bruised ribs. I will send you the medical certificate first thing tomorrow in the morning. I will not be in for about a fortnight."

Horatio gave a light cough, but still loud enough for CSI Wolfe on the other end of the line to perfectly understand what he thought about leaves of absence for maladies.....especially when these health problems were literally self-inflicted." Very well, !" He replied in an even tone that expressed his complete disapproval of the situation better then a thousand harsh words. "Take care. Get some rest and I will see you back at work in two weeks time." He excused himself curtly and snapped the cell phone shut.

CSI Wolfe had a nerve! First he got himself into a complete mess with his unbecoming frequentation of that rough track vet and former cocaine addict Marc Gantry, then he tried to fix a CSI investigation in order to buy time for Gantry from Ivan Sarnoff's mob and last but not least, he made him -Horatio Caine-clean up the mess behind and get Gantry's young son Billy out of the clutches of one of Ivan's henchmen.

He'd give a piece of his mind, as soon as that harebrained youngster would be back from his oh so convenient leave of absence for medical reasons. And he'd make sure that Wolfe made his excuses to Eric and Caleigh for his highly unprofessional interfering with their enquire of the murder of exchange broker Ian Watson.

Horatio Caine pushed the thoughts about his CSI from his mind and concentrated on tonight's promotion of his son's cause with Dr. John Harris. He'd find the right words and arguments to convince the man and the door for Kyle's professional future -hopefully in his own crim lab and under his very authority - would be open.

***

Already when leaving the BNP Parisbas branch, he had had the feeling that the eyes from Clemente Park and the "Barrio" were back. His shadow was apparently a clever bastard!

Wolfe continued on his way to the AMTRAK station. There was nothing he could do now. Time was running short. He had to snatch the luggage from the locker and jump onto the next airport bus. He could only hope, that the guy would not try anything right now: The swift walk from his place to the bank had been quite a challenge. He felt that he was now dangerously close to his breaking point. If his shadow should chose to confront him physically, Wolfe would not be able to stand up against him for 30 seconds.

He clenched his teeth and forced himself to breath low and even. A few steps down to the locker room. Fortunately at this hour of the day, the place was literally crammed with people. Many overnight buses of the Grey Hound Line were leaving between 5:00 and 7:00 pm. There were several long distance trains and lots of people in line for the FL shuttles to MIA.

Like him they had to catch the European overnight flights to Paris, London, Rome or Madrid. He picked the luggage from the locker and tried to ignored that pair of eyes that seemed to sting into his back like a very sharp knife.

Hardly 10 minutes later Ryan Wolfe allowed himself to relax for the first time on this day. He sat in the MIA shuttle on his way to the airport and was relatively confident that none of the other passengers was his shadow.

**Ok, now the tiny mess up of two names has been corrected.......I hope, nobody realised that there was this little incoherence running for three chapters**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5

*

Alijosha Danilenko was satisfied with his performance as CSI Ryan Wolfe for Horatio Caine. That had gone exceedingly well: some clever DSP algorithms implemented  
within software and hardware devices….his voice imitation & recognition software could operate in three different voice-processing levels: 8, 16 and 32 bits for high quality  
results. Danilenko's versatile imitation and transformation voice technology had been enhancing professional audio and music performances in many studio's around the world, since he'd had it patented in 2001 upon his arrival in the US. And today his invention, that had given him his Moscow university degree and PhD had offered for the first time a  
new processing dimension to the 'bratstvo' and Ivan Sarnoff, suggesting to a certain Lieutenant Horatio Caine, that one of his officers was simply on sick leave for two weeks time. It would be very interesting to observe what the CSI Miami would do, as soon as they'd realise that Wolfe had not come back but simply disappeared from the surface of the planet.

Then he'd start with Phase 2 of the project to first break up and then destroy Caine's team. How would Horatio react, when suddenly a ghost would start to hunt down his former co-workers with his duty gun……a ghost who'd also leave the adequate finger prints and traces…..Caine would be so occupied running after his little Wolfe in Sheep's clothing that he'd no longer have a mind to do anything else……not even to chase after "the Bratstvo"!

Alijosha Danilenko was very much satisfied with his little Master Plan. The entire executive level of the "Bratstvo" found it …….poetic and tremendously elegant. It was so easy to simply hit and run. It was much more difficult, to skilfully drive someone like Caine crack-a-nuts and show him the limits of his high tech and science………..

He shut down the program on his laptop and placed his computer together with Wolfe's service cell phone in his attachée case. " Concerning the weapon….," he enquired with Nevzorov's body guard Piotr. "Did any of the cleaning team touch it? Did you touch it?" It was essential to have Wolfe's SIG pure and virgin with only the CSI's fingerprints on it.

'Alexeij Valentinovitsch,' the body guard replied with slight shock in his voice, 'You ordered us to not touch anything with bare hand….everybody wore gloves…..we would never disobey you or Vladimir Sergueijvitsch!'

Danilenko chuckled. 'I know, Piotr. I just had to be sure. You understand how important this is for Ivan Andreijvitsch?'

The huge, broad-shouldered and muscular bodyguard nodded. He understood it perfectly well. He was perhaps not the brightest of Sarnoff's soldiers, but he was most certainly one of the most devote and trusted 'brothers'.

'Very well, then let us go. I have a lot of work to do." Danilenko took his attaché and pulled on his jacket. He had still to counterfeit Ryan Wolfe's medical certificate for his 'Two Weeks Absence' Then he returned to the garden to peek his 'babushka' a kindly good bye on the cheek and take his leave from Ramona Sanchez. His grandmothers housekeeper gave him a smile. He returned it then stopped for an instant in his track and slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers. He took out a tight roll of 100 dollar notes, then retrieved 5 of them and pushed them into the young Puerto Rican's hand. "Since you did not go with us to the shopping mall today…..here, buy yourself and your little brothers something nice and enjoy. I did a good business today. Let us at least all profit from it."

Ramona Sanchez blushed. 'Mister Alex, that is too…."

The Russian mobster shook his head."Ramona…..if I could not afford it, I would not give it to you. Just shut up and have fun…I may not come to see Marja Feodorovna for two or three days. I have a lot of work. You take care….and in case of whatsoever, you just call…"

Ramona Sanchez nodded obediently. The 500 Dollars disappeared in the pocket of her flowery summer dress. It happened quite often that Mister Alex gave her some extra money, when he made a good deal or was especially satisfied with her. But never before he had given her 500 Dollars at once. She wondered what deal he might have concluded during the last hour, when he'd been inside the house together with the silent and impressive Piotr, who seemed to be something like a body guard.

**

FL Airport Line stopped at the Terminal H of Miami International Airport. Timofeij Belkin bit his lower lip to suppress some Russian choice words of anger. So far he had managed to track Wolfe, but now things seemed to get slightly complicated.

H was the MIA terminal for the classic commercial flights into Europe. Iberia, Air France, British Airways or Alitalia were located here. The went into London, Paris, Rome, Madrid and other European capitals. As far as Belkin knew, not one single internal flight started on H Terminal and the European flights with stop-overs in Orlando or at JFK were American Airways flights that left from Terminals A or B.

Ok, one of the essentials in his line of business was to be always prepared….for everything. As usual he had not only his Florida driver's licence in his jacket, but also his valid US passport, a rather coherent amount of cash and a clean, good credit card.

Theoretically he could continue after his prey…even beyond the borders of the Americas. Should that clever Irish bastard be so clever and resourceful to seek salvage from the wrath of the 'Bratstvo' somewhere in Europe?

That would be a good basic thought: Leave the States and disappear to a faraway place. Such a strategic move would buy Wolfe a lot of time! Not that it was impossible to find him, once he'd disappeared into Europe. The 'Bratstvo' had an excellent network over there too and they could rely on comrades in all major European capitals to assist them in their quest. But this would necessitate probably a couple of weeks if he lost track now.

He pushed some money into the cab driver's hand and waited for Ryan Wolfe chosing his entrance of H Terminal. Reflecting upon it…….remembering the CSI's house on Clemente Park…..there had been a French newspaper on the kitchen table…..'Le Figaro' and he had seen a huge amount of books in French language on the bookshelves of Wolfe's living room and inside his bed chamber.

Timofeij Belkin grinned. That may be a game of hazard and he may be completely wrong and the little Irish bastard was just fond of that language, perhaps having learned it, while at Boston University or at High School ….but it was a possibility.

If he'd be in the CSI's shows, he'd rather disappear to a far-off location with which he was familiar, were he spoke the language, knew the customs and traditions….its was easier to blend in and disappear….

This was the reason, why Timofeij and his brother Dimitrij had chosen to follow Sarnoff into the US and not another of the lieutenants of Oleg Ivanov, 'vozhd' – big leader- of the famous and most venerable Izmaylovskaya Mafia into some other country, when the 'Bratstvo' started to go international in the early 1990ies. They had branches in Tel Aviv, Toronto, Paris, New York City and Miami. Belkin made up his mind. He let Ryan Wolfe slip and entered the H terminal heading straight for the Air France Desk. He'd buy himself a ticket on the next flight that would leave for the French capital and hope, that he had correctly interpreted the young CSI's plans!

As an US citizen – he had been successfully naturalized two years ago – he could travel without visa towards 26 locations in Europe, as long as he had a return ticket and would not overstay 90 days. The pretty Frenchwoman on the Air France counter told him in perfect English that he was indeed lucky and that she still had one business class ticket for tonight's non-stop to Paris.

Tim Belkin nodded, gave her his Visa credit card, showed her his passport and told her, that he would not carry any luggage. The Air France employee entered him into the flight list of AF 95, made a photocopy of the passport, provided him immediately with a boarding pass and advised him, to go at high speed through security control and customs, because the flight would take of in 45 minutes and boarding was therefore to end within the next 15 minutes.

***

Ryan Wolfe had opted for the very convenient electronic ticket and slipped his Visa credit card into one of the machines at MIA H Terminal. The boarding pass was provided immediately.

Ever since they had set up Ivan Sarnoff with the help of Marc Gentry in the underground parking of the Miami Horse Racing Track, he had known that such a situation might occur one day. When they had found the photos on the camera of paparazzi Cameron West, he had understood that the day had come….rather sooner then later.

Already after the affair with Backdraft and the race fixing, Wolfe had tried to tell Caine. Tell Caine that each and every word of Ivan's, spoken after his arrest in the garage, had to be taken exactly at face value. This was the particularity of the "Bratstvo". They never ever pronounced a vendetta, if they were not ready, willing and able to go trough with it. Giving up, would mean for the "vozhd" or the "lieutenant" who had pronounced it, that he would loose his face and reputation inside the organisation and inside the entire Russian criminal hydra that was composed at this moment of a handful of key groups and some minor bratvas.

The Solntsevskaya bratva, or Solntsevskaya brotherhood was one of—if not the—most powerful organized crime group operating in Moscow. Dolgoprudnenskaya bratva was another organization and for a long time considered the largest group of organized crime operating in Moscow. It was founded in 1988 and was allegedly very influential.

Next came the Izmaylovskaya gang , the country's most important and oldest mafia group. It was founded during the 1980s under the leadership of one Oleg Ivanov and consisted of about 500 active members.

In principle, this organization was divided into two separate bodies—Izmailovskaya and Gol'yanovskaya bratva. They utilized quasi-military ranks and strict internal discipline. Both groups of the organization were split into subgroups, each under the command of an authority figure known as an avtoritet.

Then came people like Ivan Sarnoff, high ranking lieutenant-commanders, who managed the bratvas international branch offices, for and on behalf of the avtoritet and the "vozhd" Oleg Ivanov. They had also an obshchak, a fund used by members to bribe law enforcement and authority figures, provide funding for defence should they be arrested or pension for families, should they be killed in the line of duty.

They were involved extensively in murder-for-hire, weapon sales, extortions, and infiltration of legitimate businesses and Ryan Wolfe knew quite a lot about these people….quite a lot that he would never ever share with people like Horatio Caine or his co-workers on the Miami CSI….quite a lot he'd rather forget if he could somehow….quite a lot, but not as much as his father did!

He was not running away to Europe from Ivan Sarnoff and the hit on his head…..he was simply flying back to the place he called home and to the one and only person he could trust completely and who would perhaps tell him, how to handle this situation correctly…how to get out without loss of life, be it his or that of his CSI colleagues.

Horatio Caine, for all his faults and defficiencies at the purely human level was a good police officer and a courageous man. But he was also terribly sure of himself and not very subtle and he simply could not fathom that there were people around, who , while not representing any legal government- disposed of approximatively the same means and power to impose their will upon society.

Wolfe fingered his Irish Passport from his jacket and headed for the queue in front of the MIA airport security check and US Customs. It went quickly. He had just some change of clothes in his luggage and his Irish passport was one of the brand new biometric models with the correct registration through the Electronic System for Travel Authorization ESTA of the US Departement for Homeland Security. Other the MDPD Police ID, this passport was the one and only authentic ID document, Ryan Wolfe possessed. All the others, those now carefully locked away in the BNP Paribas safe deposit box were just brilliant fakes, done by people who could create from absolutely nothing a rockhard identity and life story that would even resist enquiries made about a person wanted to enter a police academy or desired to be commissioned as a police officer.

He gave a non-committing smile to the security guy who did a rather heavy handed body check on him and hoped that the man would finally stop banging his large pawns onto his broken ribs. As soon as he was through this theatricals and onboard the Air France 95 to Paris, he would get some much needed rest. The flight took 8 hours and 35 minutes. On the business class of the French airlines there were phones availiable. He could call his father, as soon as they were on cruise and ask him to pick him up on the Charles de Gaulle airport.

O'Briain, former Chief of Intelligence of the notorious Irish Republican Army IRA and now peacefully settled under the terms of the French witness protection programm as a professor of Celtic Studies at the Sorbonne University of Paris would be slightly surprised to see his son turn up so impromptu, but he'd nonetheless be enchanted to see him…and Ryan knew, that Paddy would help him out of his tigh spot with the Miami branch of the Izmaylovskaya Mafia.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6 Wolfe in a Cage

*

Air France was already starting to board the First Class passengers onto their Airbus A340-300. The craft could carry 252 passengers and it seemed that tonight's shuttle from MIA to Paris CDG was booked until the last seat.

Tim Belkin had never believed in God, but having found his target on the right flight to the right destination filled him with pride: He chuckled softly; to deduce from the presence of a French newspaper and a collection of French books that the Irish bastard would try to disappear into France was a fine piece of work. Would he have been less encline to break the law and more tempted to enforce it, he would probably have had a brilliant future in a CSI career himself…..well, he and Wolfe were almost colleagues: Wolfe with his Boston College Master's Degree in Biochemistry, he with his Master's Degree in Chemistry from Moscow State University……and they had both left academia for the sake of adventure: Tim to follow his brother Dima and Ivan Sarnoff with the 'Bratstvo' into the Americas, Wolfe to become a commissioned police officer and CSI.

He watched his target with great interest: Wolfe stood aside from the mob of boarding passengers, carefully avoiding physical contact and ashen-faced. It was rather a surprise that he still stood on his two legs…..12 hours with Dima – May God or the devil take good care of his deceased brother's evil soul – had not have been a piece of cake. He had watched the late night show together with Alijosha Danilenko and Valodija Nevzorov by web cam. Habitually Dima's toys broke quicker….he had been carefully trained to inflict maximum pain without leaving too much traces on his victims' visible body parts!

Belkin drowned his coffee in one single gulp and stepped into the line of people boarding.

Wolfe was most certainly bloodied and weak on his knees…and perhaps also a bit dazzed and hazed up in the brain region…but the man was no fool and had been trained to be a keen observer. No need to take the risk and attract his attention to a passenger who boarded an overnight transatlantic without hand luggage or even a book for distraction. It was better to get his ass inside the Airbus and keep a low profile until they came to Paris.

It might even be an advantage to off the slug not in Miami but far away, on another continent: Even good people with the best intentions left traces behind, when they attempted to make a body disappear. And this was the one thing Valodija Nevzorov and Alijosha Danilenko would not need….traces!

Aboard these fancy Air France planes they had telephones. He'd ring Nevzorov up, as soon as they were on cruise and tell him that he was still after his prey, still on track. Nevzorov would contact their brothers in Paris and he would get all the support he needed once arrived. When his turn came, he showed his passport and boarding card to the pretty Air France hostess and gave her a dazzling smile. It was not written in red letters over his handsome face that he was a professional killer and the girl replied with a pretty smile of her own. Tim Belkin decided to enjoy his 8 hours 35 minutes on board and ignore Wolfe. As soon as they'd be in france and out of the Airport with its tight-knit security, policemen in civil and patrolling service men of the French Armed Forces, he'd go back to business…..a dark, anonymous parking lot or an underground garage with location vehicles were perfect places for a clean kill and he knew that the gigantic Charles de Gaulles Airport had many of those!

**

Wolfe kept as far away from the boarding crowd as possible. He'd get on board, as soon as the rush was over. He did not trust his legs any longer. Already the body check at the security control point had been limit. He would ask the carbine attendant for Paracetamol. He could get 1000 mg without attracting attention. Could always pretend a broken tooth…they would not mind. The stuff was a joke as a painkiller, apart headaches or menstrual problems of girls under 16, but highly efficient to break fever….and fever he had by now. Most certainly, the Russian mobster had not cleaned his toys last night before using them on him. He was not a cissy, but he was now at the point where he'd break. There was some internal bleeding….he knew…he had taken some very hard blows and had coughed up blood and he had almost passed out twice, once after having been seated in the bus and then after another attempt to rise from sitting position here in front of the gate. He prayed all gods he knew, that he'd make it to Paris without attracting anybody's attention. To keep himself from thinking to much about how he would manage to get one foot in front of the other in order to get into that blasted Airbus, he started to observe the other passengers. He had always liked to observe people! Most of the business class passengers seemed unfortunately just exactly that: Business class! Dark suits or lady suits, attaché cases or smart designer hand luggage, chignons, silk shawls, silk ties and laptops…..nobody terribly interesting. Only one guy caught his eye….there was something familiar in that man, but Wolfe could not say what! He wore a smart and well cut grey two pieces over broad shoulders and a slim well trained body. Niece, tasteful tie, even if Wolfe considered it slightly too coloured for the man's age, which he estimated in the 30 to 35 range. Designer shirt and excellent, expensive haircut. He also took in the Rolex watch…a diver's model. Wolfe blinked and concentrated on the watch once again…a Rolex Diver with a sparkling frame….diamonds? No Frenchman of good taste would ever wear a Rolex with a diamond frame. The French understated. And something in the guys facial was not Western European but….Central European….high, pronounced cheekbones….he concentrated on the face…..the eyes were blue, but nonetheless slightly almond shaped…Siberian type.

"Shit!" Wolfe sighted softly. He had been so sure that he'd lost his shadow at the AMTRAK station. He had not felt the eyes on his skin, after having boarded the FL Airport Shuttle, had not felt them through security and Customs, had not felt them at the Air France gate….his adrenaline level went up in a flash and his broken ribs stopped to hurt suddenly. His respiration was back to normal and he managed to straighten his shoulders, as if that blasted Russian mobster never ever had hit the left with that blasted iron tube. The shadow was here…Sarnoff's henchman had been clever enough to figure out his plan and act accordingly. He'd spend the next 8 and a half hours side by side with the guy, who had decided to take up a 2 million Dollars challenge and try to kill him. Wolfe could not even fathom, why Sarnoff from his 9m² prison cell at Bunker Hill had decided that his head would be worth 2 million Dollars, rather then 1.5 millions or only 500.000 US! Perhaps it was simply the fact that it had been Wolfe's gun that had been pointed at Sarnoff's head in the underground garage of the Miami horse track, when Horatio had the mobster arrested.

He shook his head, decided that it would not be a good idea to call Paddy and Claire from the airplane or else his shadow would find out too many things about how he could bewitch, beguile, ensnare and blackmail him and finally stepped forward into the row of boarding passengers. He had 8 hours and 35 minutes until Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport: Time enough to get some much needed rest. Time enough to observe the guy. Time enough to figure out what to do….CDG was gigantic, full of dark underground garages, where location vehicles were stored away for arriving businessmen, full of long sidewalks that were relatively deserted at nighttimes, since the region of Paris did not allow very may airplanes to land after midnight, a strong possibility that the Russian mobster was perhaps not familiar with France and the wonderful chance to have a trusted childhood friend whom he could call, without endangering his family and who would be more then capable of helping him with one single henchman of Ivan Sarnoff….Suddenly there was a new spring in Wolfe's steps. The pale colour had disappeared from his face, when he boarded the Air France Airbus and the cabinet attendant even made a joke, that he did not look as if he had a toothache that merited Paracetamol and promised him a nice scotch whiskey as soon as the would have taken off. He managed to give her his most charming smile and admit jokingly that he was a bit of a cissy, when it came to dentistry and would nonetheless appreciate the stuff together with his drink.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 6:2 – Wolfe in a Cage

*

Alijosha Danilenko printed the fake medical certificate, verified the output closely and placed the paper with great care in the frame of a so-called 'Authentic Signatures' device. 'Authentic Signatures' was mainly employed by the high, the bright and the famous to cope with requests for autographs or to give a personal touch to invitations, fund raising letters or other correspondence. The 'Bratstvo' has found another use for these costly machines and IT-wizard Danilenko had developed a small but clever computer program that would allow to create 'real signatures' from scanned signatures. In order to make them 'verification-proof', the computer program not only indicated the correct tracing of a signature but also assigned random pressure to the ink ball point or classic fountain pen strapped into the 'Authentic Signature' device. This was an important factor when it came to get 'fake signatures' through bank verifications. Many huge financial corporations employed experts who would control the signatures on important financial documents. Since Alijosha did not put it beyond Horatio Caine to have –over the years as a CSI-developed an eye for handwriting, too he did not want to risk, that the medical certificate was put into cause by the boss of the Miami crime Lab for such an issue as pressure on a fountain pen!

They could have forced the M.D. to place his authentic signature onto the paper, but this would have meant to have a potential, difficult-to-control witness of his little charade in town and simply killing the doctor to shut his mouth forever was no option either….for as sure as the sun rose every day over Dade County, it would have been Caine and his CSIs on the spot of the murder…..

He once again scrutinized the document carefully, then folded it and put it into an envelope. To make the whole thing even more authentic, he flipped another sheet of white paper into his clever machine and typed a short text of the 'Horatio, I am sorry-type' onto which he apposed Wolfe's signature. To have an exploitable sample of the CSI's handwriting and signature had been a piece of cake: Notwithstanding the fact, that he was the youngest on Horatio's team and also highly computer literate, he seemed to resent such contemporary arts as blogging or using his computer for personal correspondence.

When Alijosha had him under observation with the tiny spy cams in his house, he had found out, that their target Number 1 of the CSI team did not e-mail his friends and relations, but wrote letters and that he also kept a kind of diary….a good, old-fashioned diary! A diary that Danilenko had indeed ruthlessly copied, in order to better understand and frame Wolfe. It had been fun to read the heavy book, bound in dark green leather and which stretched back over almost five years…but it had only helped a little bit to understand the man: The diary was unfortunately neither a dustbin for deep, unexpressed inner feelings or recollections of his day-to-day life, it was more….kind of high flying scenario for scientific work, a sort of in-depth outline for what might one day become a doctoral thesis in Biochemistry. The most personal feelings that Wolfe habitually entrusted to his 'dear diary' where musings like 'probably not feasible' or 'would necessitate a rather consistent research grant….' , but it had been useful to comprehend, how the CSI's brain worked.

He was high above-average, brilliant, tremendously arrogant and incline to explain dry facts of science in a rather witty style. What a shame, the guy had chosen to work for MDPD! He could have made many a happy student….and not only the female ones, who'd probably have haunted his classes more for his good looks then for his subject matter expertise. Alijosha Danielenko smiled: In another life and under other circumstances, he and that Irish bastard could have probably become great friends or even better, successful partners on a research project.

He folded the personal word of to Lieutenant Caine carefully and put it into the envelope with the medical certificate. Then he scotched the computer label with the CSI Lab's address onto it.

'Piotr,' he called Nevzorov's body guard, 'You drive over to the vicinity of our friend Wolfe's place and put this envelope into a mail box.

The huge man nodded obediently, took a pair of medical gloves, pulled them on and picked up the letter carefully. 'Everything shall be done, as you wish, Alexeij Valentinovitsch. Will you need me tonight?'

Danilenko shook his head. He needed silence and peace. He had a rather difficult trick to pull and he could not afford any distraction. His knowledge on the subject was book knowledge. But he was obliged to pull it off like an expert and without even the hint of a mistake. He pulled another 100 Dollars from his pocket and pushed them into Piotr's pocket.'I won't my friend! Buy yourself a nice diner at a nice restaurant. Rest well and be back tomorrow mornig sharp at 9:00!'

The bodyguard smiled, nodded and left Danilenko's pristine computer lab, which contained the latest state of the art equipment and also a new feature: A glass table and several costly equipments that were also found at the MDPD CSI lab of Lieutenant Caine.

**

AF 95 was high up in the skies over the ocean and against his habit, Ryan Wolfe had taken up the suggestion of the pretty flight attendant and accepted a glass of Scotch. He had no drinking habit and the sharp alcohol did not go down easily, but it was somewhat an accelerator for the two 500mg paracetamol tablets. He shot his shadow a discreet glance. The man sat only four seats away at the other window place in the second range of the business class. He sipped a gin tonic and had his eyes screwed onto the LCD screen that showed tonight's flight's cinematographic program, the latest James Bond 'A Quantum of Solace'.

Wolfe did not care for this type of film.

Being confronted to an outrageous level of violence and bloodshed in his daily work, he found the free-of-charge violence of some Brioni-clad superhero with the compassion of a hungry Great White Shark disgusting.

He did not even own a television set and hardly ever went to the movies. He preferred the gentler arts and enjoyed as often as possible in his spare time Miami's rather good theatrical scenes or concert halls. Another feature of his private life he did not care to share with his colleagues or Horatio. He could not get rid of his rather sophisticate and old-fashioned European upbringing, dominated by the lifestyle of the French upper class and the old money of landed, Irish-catholic gentry.

The fact that his father had put an enormous amount of this old money and even more intelligence into 'Fighting for Ireland's Freedom from the Yoke of Home Rule and the unlawful Anglo-Protestant Occupation of the Country' did not change this. Wolfe wiggled himself out of his seat, discreetly fumbled a fresh shirt from his hand luggage and wheasled off to the lavatory. Once behind the separation curtain between passengers and staff, he smilingly charmed a small towel from a slightly older flight supervisor and pointing to his slightly swollen cheek enquired in French, if incidentally she'd have a bottle of 'Eosine' or any other aseptic solution.

The French lady winced, when he explained about his mishap and a broken tooth and tomorrow's appointment with a dentist in Paris to get things better and while she searched through her First Aid Kit, he managed to skilfully steal two small packs with medical thread and her medical scissors.

After another five minutes of theatricals and chit-chat in French, he slipped into the toilets and firmly locked the door.

It was pure torment to get out of his jacket and shirt. His shoulder was turning into a darker shade of blue , the skin over the four upper ribs, where the Russian mobster had hit hardest was blackening and the cursory applied band-aids over the cuts on his chest and belly were sticky with dried blood. Nonetheless, they had to go. If he wanted to do something coherent against his shadow, as soon as they were out of CDG airport, he needed to be sufficiently patched up. He gave the two stolen packs of medical thread a determined look, watered his towel and began.

Twenty-five minutes later he left the lavatory in a pristine, fresh shirt with no treacherous traces of his earlier encounter with Ivan Sarnoff's henchman. The spoiled shirt was skilfully hidden under his jacket and would disappear into his hand luggage. He had managed to stitch the two larger cuts together without fainting and the ten-minutes cold-water cataplasm had done his ribs a world of good. Once more he bothered his favourite, elderly flight supervisor, nagging her for a cup of tea and another two 500mg Paracetamols and discretely dropping the stolen medical scissors to the floor and pushing them with his foot under the counter. He had been careful to wash the thing and get whatsoever exploitable traces off it.

When he rejoined his window seat he saw, that his shadow was still glued to the LCD screen and the adventures of one Mister Bond, oblivious to what happened around. Wolfe decided, that after tea break and the rather lavish diner Air France served on this long distance flight, he'd offer himself some hours of sleep. With two French Air Marshall's aboard, one in Business and another in Economy, the James-Bond-Fan would most certainly not be suicidary enough to make whatsoever attempt upon him on board. He'd profit from his respite and gather strength.

***

Lieutenant Horatio Caine returned from Judge McGregor's Garden Party in high spirits. After his stressful day, he had spend a very agreeable evening. Food had been excellent and company most pleasant. He had had the opportunity to discuss Kyle at length with Dr. John Harris of Miller School of Medicine at the University of Miami due to the most convenient sitting arrangement of McGregor's thoughtful spouse Sarah. She had been sensitive to believe, that the medical practioneer would appreciate a chat with one of CSI Miami's patrons, rather then with other people of the medical trade who had been also invited to the party and the two men had almost immediately hooked up. Harris had offered Caine to receive Kyle one afternoon at the School of Medicine and explain to the young man the exigencies of the admission commission including good hints at how to prepare for the tests and board. Horatio, in exchange had offered the M.D. to give him a tour of the Crim Lab and promote the acceptance of one of his young protégées, who had finished his tuition as a trainee with Price.

The only b-moll of the evening had been his unexpected encounter with Dr. Woods, his former M.E., who had left the team in order to 'spend more time with the living'.

Alex had been invited together with her husband. Alex's eldest son was a schoolmate and good friend of McGregor's youngest son and both parents were on very friendly terms.

Horatio had told Alex about the events of the day and also casually mentioned Wolfe's encounter with the Russian mobster, he had killed later that day. And Alex had gone ballistic on him! She had always had a soft spot for Ryan and so he had tried to reassure her, telling her that his young CSI was fit and in his prime and not some kind of gentle rose, who'd get knocked over by some roughing up and that he really did not see the point. But instead of taking his words at face value, she had given him a tongue lashing…

He went to his freezer and took out the milk bottle. With a full glass in his hands, Caine went outside and settled down on a comfortable chair, watching the bright summer sky over Miami. He enjoyed these rare moments of peace. Alex had not been wrong. He knew that he had been callous. He was frequently unfeeling with Ryan. He treated him harsher then either Eric or Caleigh, was often much more demanding and tight-fisted with praise.

He drank and continued watching the night sky; part of his attitude was caused by the fact, that he could not figure out his young CSI.

Ryan always did his job extremely well and showed great potential, but at the same moment he was distant, gave nothing away about himself, would not trust Horatio with his more personal thoughts and feelings, like Eric or Caleigh.

The other reason was, that Horatio saw so much of his own younger self in Wolfe and he was somewhat frightened, that if not thoroughly tamed and broken in, Ryan would be capable to fall into the same traps, he had fallen in ….and make the same mistakes.

He finished his glass, carried it back into the kitchen, called it a day and went for bed. He'd give Wolfe a couple of days to cope with what had happened during the last 24 hours, get some rest and recover -at least physically- from what had happened in that abandoned sugar processing plant. He'd also talk to Ryan's colleagues, explain and impress upon them that the younger man had had no choice at all….All said and done, he'd go and find him and talk to him.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 7 A Labyrinth of Fear

*

Madame le Professeur Claire Charpentier M.D., Director of the Forensic Anthropology Service at the Raymond Poincarré Clinique clinique at the University Hospital at Garches loved warm summer nights and cosy diners in the beautiful garden of her lavish home at Saint-Nom-la Breteche. She also loved cooking and baking and proudly gestured to a plat full of assorted homemade fruit pastries. "Help yourself, Jean Paul!" She invited her guest."All fruits are from the garden and everything is still warm."

Her companion of 15 years and soon-to-be husband Dr. Padraig O'Briain, Professor of Celtic Studies at Paris' oldest university 'Sorbonne' opened another bottle of ice-cold, sparkling white Saumur wine and refilled their glasses.

"Why didn't you bring the brats?" O'Briain referred to Jean Paul Moulin's teenage twin daughters Mari and Gwenael, who were his favourite underage pranksters and whom he considered as if they were his own grandchildren.

"They were dreadfully sorry, Paddy….but tonight is Harry-Potter night and they preferred to squeeze themselves into a dreadful crowd of youthful fanatics in front of the UGC cinema. They will stay overnight at the place of one of their little friends, who is also a Potter fan."

Claire chuckled softly and took a tiny bit from a raspberry cake onto which she had heaped sweet whipped cream. "I still remember when these two young ladies sneaked into the garden of Paddy's house in Plougastel-Daoulas with their UK copy of 'Philosopher's Stone' and bullied him into translating because they did not understand half of the book."

"Yes, they were real sweethearts…..I believe, I know these Potter books by heart because of your two little fairies." Dr. O'Briain smiled. Moulin's parents in law had been very partial to this type of literature and never wanted the girls to read crap about wizards and dark lords. Mari and Gwen had been hiding their copies at his place and ruthlessly lied to Granny and GrandPa, telling them that they'd go to their families long time friend only in order to get help with school homework.

"You like them?" Moulin asked. His girls were pretty normal teenagers and he had had his share of fancying the youngish blond-haired British actor who plaid one of the book's heros. He had accompanied them to the other movies, when they had been younger and had endured patiently swishing broomsticks, noisy children, pop corn and coke and all the other ingredients of a successful cinema outing.

Paddy O'Briain shrugged his broad shoulders. "They made children read once again. This is good and I can appreciate it. But as to the plot and contents….well…I may be a bit to old for fairy tales!"

"Says the translator of the "Red Book of Hergest" and unnumbered old Irish and Breton legends…" Claire caressed Padraig O'Briain's cheek softly. "There is no harm to confess that you like childrens tales. You make a living of them, don't you!" She still remembered the circumstances under which she had first met O'Briain. He had then been Professor of Celtic Studies at the Center for Old Irish and Ancient Breton Studies of the University of Western Brittany in Brest and she had been the strapping new associate director of Brest University Hospital's brand new Crime Lab and Jean Paul Moulin had been a homicide detective with what looked like a pervert serial killer at hand.

Since his presumed serial killer had employed a range of priceless, antique Celtic daggers to off his athletic, muscular, young and very male victims and left them with even rarer and more priceless 'Defixiae'- silver sortilege tablets inscribed in Middle Celtic in the mouth, Moulin had brought in Paddy on the crime investigation.

Claire had not known about Paddy's past then and when the investigation was over and the mystery solved –mostly due to her above-average skills as a forensic scientist, Jean Paul's above-average courage and Padraig's above-average knowledge of legends of the days of old, it had no longer mattered to her. She had fallen desperately in love with the man and simply decided to ignore his infamous past and the fact that he would be - until the end of his life- under the protection of the French government and on top of the hit list of one of the most dangerous crime organisations of the world.

She put her empty plate back on the garden table and rose from her comfortable chair with yellow and blue cushions. "You stay over night, JP!" It was not a question, but an order and Commandant de Police Jean Paul Moulin nodded demurely. He loved to stay with Claire and Paddy, when his daughters were out and away.

When he wanted to raise himself and go to the kitchen to prepare some strong espresso for the three of them, his private cell phone rang.

"Just a moment!" He excused himself and took the incoming call, supposing that his two babies –excited about the new Potter movie and hopefully obediently on their way to their friend's home- wanted to wish him a good night.

But while familiar and most welcome, the voice on the other end of the line was not one of his daughters.

A couple of minutes later, he closed his cell phone shut and went back to the garden table. He looked at Padraig O'Briain.

"I think, we are in trouble, Paddy!" Moulin said in a grave voice. "That was Ryan. He's onboard AF 95 from Miami to CDG and he believes, that he has an ancient and most embarrassing problem of yours on his heels, although they seem to completely ignore your connection."

O' Briain's face went ashen. Claire Charpentier clutched her throat in reflex. Without further words, she too had understood the cryptic statement of the Police officer.

"Oleg Ivanov?" O'Briain asked softly.

Moulin shook his head. "Not so dramatic, Paddy….just one of his overseas lieutenant commanders and it seems that your son's boss at the Miami Crime Lab has stepped on the toes of that mobster. Ryan did not tell me much. These airground radiotelephones are not very convenient for lengthy discussions and superfluous explanations. He asked me to meet him at the RER B Metrorail station at Roissy-CDG."

Padraig O'Briain gave Moulin a hard look. "I will go with you, Jean Paul!"

"You will not, Paddy! Ryan was rather formal about this. I already betrayed his trust by telling you, he called. He wants you and Claire out of this, as far away from harm as humanly possible. Please do me a favour and for once…..keep out."

"What are you going to do, JP?" O'Brian enquired. His light blue eyes had turned to from a darker, stormier colour.

Moulin flipped his duty cell phone open and pushed a speed dial button. "Call in some more friends to help."

After a highly successful stint as a homicide detective in Brest and then as a principal detective with the Organised Crimes Division at 36 Quai des Orfévres Central Directorate of Judicial Police, he had been recently promoted to the rank of commander with the sixty strong elite counter terrorist unit of the General Direction of the National Police, better known under its abbreviation RAID1.

Padraig O'Briain and Professor Charpentier listened attentively, while Moulin talked to his second-in-command Fersen and then to the Commander, who was now in charge of his old unit 'Organised Crime', Francois Delveaux. The three man agreed to meet at the Roissy CDG RER B Metrorail station within the hour and Delveaux offerd to send a man to the Terminal, where the AF 95 would land in order to keep a discreet eye on Ryan and check if his assumption, that he was followed was correct. No need to frighten the horses, should Padraig O'Brian's son had only seen shadows in the dark….

"Well, Paddy! Delveaux is very keen to have a lengthy discussion with a live Russian mobster belonging to the Ismaylovskaya 'Bratva'. He has never seen one, although their Paris branch office gives him a tremendous amount of trouble. You get yourself a drink, sit down and wait. We will handle this and as soon as things are clearer and less confusing, I'll bring Ryan here…if he lets me."

Moulin chuckled, went into the house, took his service Glock 9mm from a drawer and snatched his leather jacket. Then he left in a hurry. The last thing O'Briain and Claire Charpentier heard, was the roaring noise of his devilish, burgundy red 1200 cm³ Harley Davidson XB12 motorbyke.

Ryan Wolfe had managed to take six good hours of sleep and felt rather more confident, then when he had boarded AF flight 95 to CDG-Paris airport. He had made a quick phone call over the air-ground radiotelephone service still availiable on long distance Air France flights and his friend Jean Paul – while very much surprised by his call and his request – had agreed to meet him at the Roissy Metrorail Station.

They had grown up together at Plougastel-Daoulas in Brittany; he at his grandmothers place, a white Belle-Époque villa right on the cliffs over 'La Pointe aux Chèvres' on the beautiful Crozon peninsula, Jean Paul a little bit further down the ancient costal smugglers' path in a stone century fisherman's house with an enormous, almost enchanted garden and his father's trawler directly docked in front of the family's lodging.

They had also made very similar choices in life and notwithstanding the fact that Ryan had left France for the US in order to avoid the harsh inconveniences of a most courageous, but somewhat foolhardy choice his father had made a long time ago, they had always stayed extremely close and in constant touch.

Ryan glanced over to the place, where the Russian mobster dozed peacefully. The man had not the slightest chance, if he managed to go through with his plan and lure him into the Roissy-CDG RER B Metrorail Station.

The plane would touch down in about one hour. It would take them another 45 minutes to get off the plane and through security and customs. Then a 25 minutes bus ride to the station. It would be close to midnight. Hardly any passenger who arrived at midnight on CDG would be foolhardy enough to take RER B.

The Metrorail stopped its service at one o'clock in the morning and there was already the risk to miss the last outgoing ride. There was no chance at all to catch a taxi in such a case and the unfortunate traveller would be stuck in a very, very lonely place. One of the less agreeable features of Paris CDG airport was its close proximity to five suburban areas constructed by the architect Paul Delouvrier, where the French government of General de Gaulle, in the rush after the decolonialisation of Algeria in the 1960ies had lodged in a hurry the displaced citizens.

As soon as these French national had re-established themselves in their homeland, they had abandoned the so-called 'banlieu' of Greater Paris in the Seine-Saint Denis region and the abandoned blocks had been rapidly filled up with people from North Africa, Central Africa and other immigrants. Crime was rocket high, the area was incredibly dangerous and gangland.

This crime scene had taken to the RER B as their favourite means of transport between the five new townships of greater Paris and with Roissy-CDG being its Terminus, the station had become something of a nightly gathering of delinquents and misfits of all type and colour. It was an uncomfortable place to be for normal travellers, but it was a perfect place to set up the Russian and get rid of him.

***

The AF 95 landed on schedule. Since 9711 security measures had become a pain in the ass, wherever a traveller went and Tim Belkin took his misfortune with good graces. He answered the security people's questions politely and explained to Customs in a professional voice and with a ready smile that he had nothing to declare, would return to the States in three days, was in Paris to attend a meeting and would stay at the Concorde-La Fayette Hotel at Paris, a well-known place for executives and business people. He showed them his bundle of US Dollars to prove that he was quite capable to pay for his sojourn and signed without argument a medical insurance, paying with his Master Card.

Wolfe had been in front of him and for a rather obscure reason had managed to get much quicker and without any questions through Customs. But Belkin knew that with "Place of Birth: Moscow (USSR)" in his US passport it was better to keep a low profile and play it gently with the officers. Being Russian was next best to being from the Middle East, when it came to inconvenient and lengthy security checks on airports.

Finally the French Border Police released him with a polite: " Have a nice stay in France" and he caught up with Ryan, who seemed to wander slightly aimlessly from door to door at the CDG A Terminal. He seemed to look for something specific. Belkin hung back and observed. It took hardly three minutes and he understood. The CSI needed transport to downtown Paris and wanted to take the Metrorail shuttle. Well, he'd take it too. No better place in the world to off an inconvenience then a lonely Metrorail shuttle! Then you simply stepped out of the train at the next station and let the body go off on its own. Considering the fact, that he had no weapon, he'd try and get close enough to either strangle the Irish bastard or break his neck. He had been well taught in the Russian Army and years of practice in Ivan Sarnoff's Aegean Extreme Fighting Club had toned his skills to the utmost. It would take him less then 15 seconds to dispatch Wolfe. Considering the man's diminished physical state he'd not be able to put up a fight!

****

Ryan Wolfe took great care to not lose his shadow, for by now he was sure that he was right. The broadshoulderd, smartly dressed guy with the fancy diver's Rolex hung a bit back and tried to convince the public that he was looking for transport. But it had not escaped Wolfe's observing eye that the man stayed close and followed in his footsteps. Wolfe finally decided to end the game and left the Terminal through gate 13. The Shuttles to Roissy-CDG RER B went at a 2 minutes rhythm until midnight. He let the first one that stopped pass, waiting for 'Shadow'. When he realised, that the Russian mobster had left the terminal too through Gate 13, he boarded the next shuttle through the front door without haste. His shadow followed, choosing the back door and sitting down immediately. Wolfe stood, showing the man his back and using the bus driver's mirror to observe. So he had been right all along. He had not seen shadows in the dark. This guy had indeed followed him, since he had left his house on Clemente Park.

*****

Commandant Jean Paul Moulin pushed his cell phone back into his jacket. Delveaux's man at the A terminal had confirmed that Ryan had a shadow. He had sent him and the boss of the Organised Crime Division of Quai des Orfèvres a snapshot of the guy, but the face was not familiar. They had send it on to HQ and the analysts. If the man was filed somewhere in the world, they would find it out within the hour. Moulin took up his position close to the RER ticket machine next to the closed newspaper shop at the station. Delveaux was not far away. In the perfect disguise of a homeless bump including old supermarket trolley and plastic wine bottle in the pocket of an extremely smelly and flea-ridden long trench coat, the other policeman was ransacking a dustbin. The junkie in another corner of the station, who was apparently fixing his next shot over the flame of a lighter was one of Moulin's own men from the RAID and the downtrodden whore with ripped stockings under a perfectly tasteless leather mini skirt belonged to Delveaux's unit. Moulin knew, that she had a very cute and very deadly Mini-UZI 9x19mm Parabellum submachine gun in her horribly flashy red lacquer handbag. It was her job to get close to Ryan's shadow, as soon as his friend was with him at the ticket machine.

1 French police organisation and police ranks are completely different from American organisation and ranks. It would go to far to explain all this within the framework of the story. Only so much; while Wolfe and Moulin are approximatively the same age, Moulin ranks much higher as a police officer but he has –contrary to Wolfe- no university/academic curriculum. When Wolfe left to study at Boston College, Moulin integrated the famous É_cole_ nationale supérieure de _police, also known as -Commissaire and neighbour of the famous military academy -L'Ecole, a prestigious governmental academic institution that forms over five years the elite of the police, those men and women who compose the leaders of the law enforcement organisations of the country. Moulin would be rather of the same rank as Horatio Caine. Our French system may seem as obscure to readers from the US, as their system is to us. So just do not mind and enjoy the story!_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 8 Hunter and Prey

*

Vladimir Nevzorov screened the incoming message on his Blackberry. He shock his head, made polite excuses to some of his clients, with whom he had been chatting amiably and went from his restaurant's public area upstairs to his office. He typed the password into his computer, confirmed with a second password and entered the protected network, that Alijosha Danilenko had created for the 'Bratstvo'.

Their IT system operated along the same lines secure governmental systems worked, employing a derivate from National Security Agency NSA endorsed Suite B algorithms, employed for use as an interoperable cryptographic base for both unclassified information and most classified information.

Danilenko had put his hands on part of these algorithms through his assiduous participation in IT standardisation work in which the NSA too participated. He had then adapted –together with a handful of Moscow-based computer wizards, which were constantly on the 'Bratstvo's' payroll -algorythms to their peculiar needs. They even had a key exchange protocol similar to the NSA FIREFLY and employed a home-cooked derivate of the EKDS-Electronic Key Distribution System for additional COMSEC.

Their IT technology was highly sophisticate and communication security could match the best of the best on the world market and Ivan Sarnoff had not hesitated to invest in order to equip most of his men with the latest gadgets on the market. Nevzorov oppened the tracking programm on his computer. Another of Alijosha Danilenko's highly usefull developments.

When the AccuTracking online GPS cell phone tracking service on the Motorola iDEN GPS-enabled Java cell phone by service provider Nextel had hit the US market, enabling paranoid parents and spouses to see real-time locations and headings of their children, family members or family cars and receive email or SMS alerts when their beloved ones move across designated areas or exceed for example speed limits with the car, Danilenko together with a second specialist – a professor from Moscow State University, who preferred the huge pay check of the 'Bratstvo' to the lowly salary of the federal Russian government – had acted immediately.

And while they had had to wait until 2008, when the Russian Federal Security Service FSB finally allowed the importation of BlackBerries onto the Russian market to put the 'Bratstvo HQ' in Moscow and Oleg Ivanov into the loop, their overseas branches in the US, in Israel, in Central America and in the UK had been successfully employing the system for three years now.

Inside the organisation there were only a select few, who knew about the real-time location placed upon their soldiery and lower ranks. Tim Belkin would never know, that Nevzorov had been pretty much aware of him leaving the country and flying overseas to some European destination!

Sarnoff's second-in-command watched the Belkin-Flag as Google Earth zoomed in on his Dell 3007WFP 30" wide screen LCD display. It was one of the most, if not the most awesome computer monitor on the market. With a native resolution of 2560x1600, which is about 4 Megapixel, image quality was exceptional. This together with the high speed fiber optics cable broadband internet acces made the actual location of his man appear sharp and clear within seconds. Nevzorov read the indication: Roissy-CDG Metrorail Station. So Wolfe had been clever and believed that leaving the country would get the 'Bratstvo' off his track. Basically an excellent thought, would it not have been for Timofeij's excellent thought to follow him!

Nevzorov quickly dispatched an e-mail to his Paris-based counterpart, a man named Alexandr Rossinski, who worked behind the screen of a business consulting and investment firm, specialised in new technologies. Then he send an e-mail onto Belkin's BlackBerry, giving him the contact phone number for Rossinski and a specific password, that would prove to the French branch, that he was indeed one of their own and out on official business. They'd provide their Miami colleague with whatsoever help needed in his quest!

When everything was done, he called Alijosha Danilenko.

**

Wolfe politely thanked the bus driver and left the Metrorail shuttle without haste. The fact, that his shadow also quit the bus through the back door confirmed his earlier assumption. Now it came just down to crossing a dark road and entering the Station, without being assaulted. He knew, that JP would be inside, waiting for him. It was almost over.

***

Timofeij Belkin took in the surrounding environment with an experienced eye. This was absolutely perfect. They had been the only passengers on the shuttle. The bus had drawn out of his slot and was going back to the Airport. Wolfe was definitively going to the station and not heading towards the Airport Hotel close bye. The man had played a good game until now, but he did not seem to comprehend the danger of being completely alone inside such a building around midnight. Should there be people, it would be only scum, who could not care less, if someone was offed in front of them. All official counters, newspaper shops, ticket offices etc. would be shut down for the night and even if some type of surveillance was installed inside the station, it was highly probable, that it would not work. The underground world who cherished railway stations and subway terminals was the same all over the world. They needed the quick transport but would not accept being watched by authority. Habitually surveillance systems were either sprayed or entirely destroyed and after a while most local authorities simply gave up replacing the cameras or cleaning the lenses.

He squared his shoulders and crossed the dark street after his prey. There was no need to be careful any longer. It did not matter, if Wolfe realized that he was followed. There was no way out. Any attempt to run or to put up a fight would only be a distracting prolongation to Belkin's exciting hunt. Tim's lips curled into a predatory smile. He hoped, that the CSI would try something. Habitually he preferred his targets to be at peace and go without a noise, but in this specific case his now deceased elder brother Dima stood between them. For all his faults and dangerous folly, Dima had been family and he had always been good to Timofeij. Wolfe had been quintessential not only in the set up and arrest of Sarnoff but also in Dima's death by the hands of Horatio Caine. Therefore Belkin wanted the man to know that he would die and that he would die by the hand of the 'Bratstvo'.

****

Wolfe squared his shoulders and crossed the dark street. He could feel the eyes of his shadow literally burning on his back. The man had given up caution and moved after him without a thought. He seemed to be convinced that there was no chance at all to avoid confrontation in a desolate train station, right in the middle of the night, in a no-man's land between a giant airport and an even larger business zone. And the outward appearances of the place seemed to prove the shadow right. The train station main entrance was locked and Wolfe had to go around a dark corner in order to enter by a side passage. The shadow was hardly 5 meters behind.

Inside the station the appearances were even more desolate then outside. Wolfe's trained eye jumped from the smelly bump, who was ransacking a dustbin to a hardly visible creature in a corner – type 'junkkie preparing a fix' – and whose face was half-lighted by the flame of a Zippo over which gleamed a silvery spoon. The ragged debris close to the door appeared to be of female gender and from her disguise probably a cheap whore, who was trying to sell her body for drugs. His lips curled up into a smile.

Law enforcement who tried to maintain a grip on railway stations and subway terminals during late night hours was the same all over the world!

He presumed, that the 'whore' had some kind of high-flying and rapidly firing tool in her tasteless, but large handbag, probably some Mini-UZI or even a Czech-made Scorpion in 32 ACP. He'd give preference to the Czech weapon, because due to its subsonic ammo you could use a silencer on it ….so not to disturb the neighbourhood if it would come to a showdown. She was probably the back up of the smelly bump.

His long, ample and flea-ridden trench coat would hide the riot gun of the team, hardly discreet but rather discouraging, if you were on the business end of the barrel. The junkie in the corner would have just his service weapon, but his position in this clever triangle was strategic. He'd jump onto the intended target from behind and immobilise it, cuffing its hands behind its back immediately either with cuffs or with plastic cable binders. Since they were in France, it would be the cable binders. His European colleagues avoided using the cuffs. They were government-issued and if you lost your pair, you had to pay the rather painful sum of 120 € for replacement, while a standard 1000-pack of cable binders to last the year would come for less then 5 € at the local do-it-yourself store.

*****

Everything happened so quickly, that Tim Belkin only began to understand, when he was forcefully pushed onto the backseat of a long, dark four-wheel drive. He sat squeezed in between the smelly bump and the downtrodden whore. The junkie squezzed himself onto a strap seat in the luggage space, where he immediately started to fumble with the Russian mobster's BlackBerry and a laptop. Wolfe was on the front passenger seat, obviously exhausted but extremely pleased with himself and the driver seat was taken by a fellow in a black leather biker jacket with short-cut hair, square jaws and an extremely nasty look on his face.

The biker, the bump, the whore and Wolfe chattered in rapid and incomprehensible French. The junkie in the luggage space kept his mouth shut and his fingers on the laptop keyboard.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 9 Down to the Wire

*

Ramona Sanchez carefully put the cake on the Tupperware plate. " I will slice it for you, Marja Feodorovna! I do not like it, when these nasty guards finger your cakes. Already the thought, that they did this must be disgusting for Mister Ivan!"

The old woman nodded and looked contently at her piece of art. She was masterful, when it came to the art of preparing Russian pastries. All Alioshenka's friends loved them, Ramona's sweet brothers loved them and Mister Ivan always joked, that he'd set up a line of bakery shops for her in Miami – Baba Marija's! She did not understand why the authorities had been so hard on him. Well, she did not approve of his gambling habit and to wager on horses, but pour Ivan Andreevitsch was a lonely man and lonely men developed this type of habit. No wife, no children, only his work….always work. She felt so sorry for the benefactor of her Alijoshenka and made a point of honour to drive with Ramona every week down to that gastly, horrible prison to sit with him, talk to him, bring him cake and nice food and a little bit of distraction: Books, magasins, Russian cross words she bought at the Miami International Bookstore.

"Did you pick up the other things too, child?" She asked Ramona in her staggering English tainted with a strong Russian accent.

Ramona Sanchez closed the Tupperware and carefully set it into the cooling box. "I did, Marja Feodorovna and I bought also a fine After Shave and good shower gel for Mister Ivan. I hope that will make him happy."

Maria Sanchez liked Ivan Sarnoff a lot. He was a perfect gentleman, always soft spoken and very polite. He never ever treated her as if she was just Marja feodorovna's housekeeper and governess, but like a real lady. When he came for diner to the cute little house in Corral Gables, he brought flowers and gifts for the old woman and he always thought of her, too. He saw, that she was young and pretty. He brought her colourful silk shawls, French perfum and occasionally even very pretty and fashionably jewellery. He kissed her hand….not like some slug, who tried to show off, but like a real man…hardly touching her skin with his lips. And he was so educated. Mister Alex had insisted from the very beginning that she was no servant girl and when there was an evening or party, she was not to do service. He always hired some catering service or free lance waiters and she would sit with them. And none of his friends ever had dared to look down on Ramona, just because she had come from Puerto Rico and had been poor and lowly.

"How can they be so cruel, not to allow them normal clothes." She asked Marja Feodorovna.

"He is no criminal, like those other rascals in that prison. Just a poor soul lost to gambling. He may have tried to fix a horse race…..but he did not harm anybody…not even the horse!"

The old woman took a small plate of homemade 'piroshki' from the freezer and passed the Russian delicacies to Ramona. " I do not understand either, Dear. But if I understood Alijosha correctly, Mister Ivan will be back with us for Christmas."

Hardly had the two women finished their extensive preparations for the weekly visit of Ivan Sarnoff, a black limousine stopped in front of the house. Ramona was content that she did not need to drive. She had her licence, but she was pretty much frightened of speed and hated the big car in Marja Feodorovna's garage. It was much too impressive for her.

Today it was Piotr who picked them up, Mister Alex's bodyguard or whatsoever he was. Ramona liked Piotr. She felt save in his company. He reminded her of a huge dog; silent, protective and always close bye. Occasionally he'd take her two younger brothers out fishing or hunting. Rodrigo and Pedro liked Piotr too, even if he hardly ever spoke a word….

Sarnoff's henchman entered the house of Danilenko's grandmother, greated the old woman and her pretty companion amiably, took the cooling box that contained loads of homemade goodies for the boss and complimented the two females out and into the car. He checked readily that the house of Marja feodorovna was shut, alarms set, dog and cats inside and everything ok. Then he slipped behind the steering wheel. They had an hour's drive and another hour left, before they could visit the boss. He'd stay outside in the car. No need to attract attention to Ivan Andreijvitsch's visitors. The guards did not care about the old woman and her pretty young companion. Marja Feodorovna was too honest and too straight forward for them to care and Ramona Sanchez was an innocent, completely devoted to her employer.

"We have time, Ladies!" He told them politely. " Would you care for a stop on our way. There is a nice coffee shop close bye. It opened recently and they have wonderful hot chocolate. Allow me to invite you!"

Babushka and Ramona nodded their agreement.

When they arrived at the coffee shop, Piotr established the two women on the terrace, complimented Ramona dutifully on her pretty dress and mentioned to her, that Mister Ivan would be pleased to see that she wore the fine necklace he'd offered her before his mishap. He knew, that Ivan Andreevitsch would appreciate his having mentioned the necklace. He was not a brilliant mind, but he had memory and he still remembered the pains the boss had taken, when chosing the gift. Ivan Andreevitsch was a hard man, but he had his soft spots and one of them was the cute, little Puerto Rican governess of Aliosha Danilenko's babushka. He went and bought their drinks.

Nevzorov had given him two peculiar items to pass on to the ladies. He had been formal about these. They had to get into Sarnoff's hands.

He returned to their table, placed the chocolate cups in front of the ladies.

"Marja Feodorovna,…." He started.

The old woman listened attentively.

After the drink and small rest, they continued on their way and arrived right in time for the visits. Piotr opened the back doors for his passengers and carried the freezing box and other stuff until they were in front of the gates.

At this moment, Ramona Sanchez made up her mind. She gave a small sign to Piotr, when he wanted to push Sarnoff's envelope into the hands of 'Babushka'.

"No!" She told the huge man softly. "You must not! I will take it together with the cell phone. We must not get Marja Feodorovna involved."

Piotr obliged and passed her the photographs. He gave the girl a broad smile. "You are a good woman, Ramona! We will remember this!" He said. His deep voice was kind, almost awed. The 'Bratstvo' was a rather selective club and it needed quite a lot to get yourself invited. He smiled; this tiny piece of woman had more courage then many of his brothers. He'd see to it, that Vladimir Nevzorov and Alexeij Danilenko would know that, as soon as they were back.

Ramona Sanchez nodded at Piotr and took the cooling bag. " I know." She replied in a low voice. "I have chosen my side….already a long time ago. I know exactly who my friends are!" She took Babushka's arm gently and led the old woman to the security check. Her face was the pleasant and slightly innocent mask, it wore during all these visits. She was fully aware of the great risk she was taking, but she was also convinced that the risk was worth being taken. Nobody had ever cared for her. Nobody had ever given a shit about how she or her brothers lived….until the day she had signed up that contract wit Alex Danilenko. On that very day her life had changed and to some people she had suddenly become more then an unwanted immigrant…she had become a human being, a human being that was treated with respect. The risk was worth taking! She was firmly convinced, that Ivan Andreevitsch was clever enough to understand immediately what everything was about…..

***

The _Préfecture de Police_, headed by the _Préfet de Police_, is an agency of the Government of France and part of the French National Police, which provides the police force for the city of Paris and the surrounding three _départements_ of Hauts-de-Seine, Seine-Saint-Denis, and Val-de-Marne. It is also in charge of emergency services, such as the Paris Fire Brigade, and performs administrative duties, such as issuing ID cards and driver licenses or monitoring alien residents. The Prefecture of Police also has limited security duties in the wider Île-de-France _région_. It was a large building located in the Île de la Cité on Place Louis Lupin, 1, rue de la Cité, close to the Metro Station Cité and it dated back to the midst of the and had been buildt under Napoleon III. by the Baron Hausmann to provide a lodging to the "Guardians of the republique", the earlier, mounted police force of the French capitale.

Ryan Wolfe knew the impressive historical monument fairly well. He had been inside with Jean-Paul Moulin, his childhood friend. They had had lunch at the cafeteria and JP had shown him the premises of the Parisian CSI, the "Institut Medico-Légale" just for fun. Now at nighttime, the beautiful Préfecture looked more like a castle in a fairy tale then headquarters of the French capital's law enforcement.

They passed the check point quickly. The uniformed policemen at the great main gate just smiled and opened the barrier. Wolfe saw, that his Russian mobster shadow was quickly hurried out of the car by several helpful hands. The "downthrodden whore", she was in fact Lieutenant Pauline Lamperière of the 'Organised Crimes Division' and a highly experienced police officer took charge of the guy. Her boss – the smelly bump - Francois Delveaux, commandant of the Organised Crime and with whom he had sympathised during the ride from CDg to Paris stayed with him and Moulin. The fourth man – the junkkie and one of Jean Paul's officers simply excused himself and disappeared into the night, as soon as they were inside the building..

" So what now?" Wolfe asked his childhood friend. He was dead tired and hardly capable to put one foot in front of the other.

Moulin put his arm over his shoulder and hushed him into the building. "As you may already have realised, my dear friend…..we have next to nothing against this Mister Belkin!" The French police officer gave his CSI colleague a fabulous smile. He looked almost like Garfield the Cat. "But since we are paupers and have nothing against him, sweet Pauline was clever enough to slip a small plastic bag with 20 gramms of pure heroine into his pocket. You can be sure, that our more straight-forward and law-abiding colleagues at the 'Reception Desk' will find the stuff."

Wolfe grinned, nothwithstanding his broken ribs which were literally killing him. He was rather close to kill himself….for a 20 pack of Ibuprofen or any other non-steroid painkiller on the French market. He abandonned pride and self esteem and gratefully leaned against Moulin's shoulder.

Delveaux, still smelly and in his bump disguise chuckled nastily: "You are in a hell of a state, Ryan! Shouldn't you rather be in bed then hang out with the crowd."

Wolfe stopped in his pace, riddened himself of the supportive arm of Moulin and tourned around. "What?" His voice was much stronger, then his knees.

Delveaux shrougged his shoulders, smiled innocently and pointed his finger at Wolfe's chest. "You are leaking, mate! I saw it already at Roissy Rail Station, but I am not a spoil-fun." He snatched his US colleague's arm and gave his French colleague from RAID a nasty look. "Are you either very blind or simply very stupid, JP!" He stated matter-of-fact. Then he mummbled something about downstairs, 'The Morgue' and the night shift MD, who sould be there.

***

Ramona Sanchez passed the security check of BunkerHill together with 'Babushka'. She carried the cooling bag over one arm and had her other arm hocked under Marja Fedorovna's right. With a determined voice she stated, that they had come to see Prisoner Ivan Sarnoff. The guard checked their Ids, opened the cooling bag, gave the Tupperwared cake a coursory glance and left them in.

She settled the old lady in a chair, placed her bag on the floor and waited. When Sarnoff's name was announced and the security gates opened, she straigtened her soulders, gave 'Babushka' a comforting squeeze and ran litteraly into the Russian mobster's arms.

"You must trust me now, Mister Ivan!" She whispered into his ear, her head against his cheek. " Just pretend, that you are happy to see me. I have things for you…."

Ivan Sarnoff reacted immediately. He flung his arms around Ramona Sanchez, lifted her of the floor and placed a quick kiss onto her cheek. "I have always trusted you, Beautiful!" He whispered, pulling her lean, slender form against his own body and inspiring deeply the scent of her flowery perfume. "And as soon as I am out of this loathsome place, I will prove it to you!" He ran his hands gently over her back and up to her collar bones, caressing her as if they were lovers. Ramona shuddered.

"There is an envelope and a cell phone hidden in my dress, Mister Ivan!" She whispered. She enjoyed feeling his lean muscular body against hers and shivered slightly in his arms.

"I could not care less!" The Russian mobster replied truthfully, but he extracted the illegal goods nonetheless with experienced hands from Ramona's bodice.

****

"What have you been thinking?"

Ryan Wolfe suddenly realised that he was no longer on his way up a Hausmann staircase but somewhere down in a rather cold and empty place. His jacket was gone and so was his tie. His shirt was open. The face in front of him was bespectacled, probably slightly over 50, bearded and compassionate. It reminded him of his favourite teedy bear, when he had been a child. Teddy face held a long and slender implement in his left and was tapping it gently with his right hand's index finger.

"This will do the trick, Moulin!" He said. "I am not terribly used to life beings, but I can still tell you, that your friend should not be here."

When the slender and long implement hit his vein, Ryan Wolfe felt a sudden relief. The killer ribs ceased to exist and he started to breath again.

"I have no idea, what happened to your friend…" Bespectacled explained to JP and the smelly bump Delveaux in a voice, that was as cold as his morgue, "But if you really intend to drag him upstairs, you may provide me with another client soon….be reasonable, guys!"

It sounded to Wolfe as if the Teddy Face was advising both, Jean Paul and Delveaux against taking him upstairs, where they would have finally an occasion to speak with his shadow. He was not willing to agree with that paranoid MD. He wanted to have his jacket and tie back. And he wanted to go upstairs…..he wanted to know, why the guy with the tasteless diamond-rimed Rolex had been on his heels since Miami…and if Ivan Sarnoff was behind all this.

Delveaux and Moulin exchanged looks. Moulin was the first to speak.

'Ecoute, Francois – Listen, Francois….. '

The smelly bump nodded, the teddy-faced MD grudgingly agreed and fixed a pristine, new band-aid over Wolfe's "leak". The embarrassing veil lifted, when the stuff the MD had injected started to kick in.

"I am going upstairs with you!" The CSI explained with stubborn determination to his two French nannies. " I have dragged this bugger all along from Miami….I want to be rid of him."

Francois Delveaux gave a deep sigh. "Then pray, Ryan and pray quickly that there is whatsoever on his BlackBerry that is embarrassing or illegal or queer…..or else we are obliged to allow Mister Tim Belkin to leave our premises within 48 hours…together with the excuses of the organised Crime Unit and Monsieur le Préfet!"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 10 Obscure Reasons

*

Piotr entered Alexeij Danilenko's IT company headquarters in Western Miami through the side doors.

It was Saturday and the other collaborators enjoyed a well-merited weekend. Piotr had brought Marja Feodorovna and Miss Ramona back to the old lady's home after their visit with the boss, smilingly listening to Marja Feodorovna's playful chiding of Miss Ramona, who must have pulled off quite a show to get the phone and envelope into Sarnoff's hands without any of the prison guards noticing the transfer.

Piotr smiled. He was cast in iron , stone hard muscles all over and with a face, that only a mother could love, but deep inside he cherished his sentimental Russian soul and this soul was not entirely convinced that the Puerto Riccan beauty had just pulled off a show.

He had seen her eyes on the boss during diners at Marja Feodorovna's and he was willing to wager his considerable monthly financial allowance from the 'Bratstvo' that Ramona was in love with him. Ivan Andrejvitsch himself -while excessively prudent, when it came to showing his softer sides- seemed to fancy her, too.

Piotr had been prior to a few of the bosses flings -one-night-stands they called them in America- and while he had always been generous and polite with these ladies, he had never spend more then a fleeing thought on them. With Miss Ramona, he behaved different...as if he'd like to have something serious, something long-term. He courted her in a very old-fashioned manner!

"So, Piotr! Everything went according to plan?" Danilenko asked, without looking up from the work he was doing. CSI Wolfe's weapon had served him, to take the man's fingerprints and now he was carefully trying to reproduce them with the help of a special modelling plastic, that would dry without becoming hard. He intended to construct a complete fingerprints set from both hands on two gloves.

"Otlitshno!" The broad shouldered body guard replied. "He has both, the envelope with the screenshots and the cell phone." He smiled. "There is something else, you should know, Alexeij Valentinovitsch! About Miss Ramona!"

Danilenko looked up. Had there been a problem? Had he misplaced his trust and chosen the wrong person? A slight frown lay on his boyish face.

Piotr understood without words and shook his head." No, there was nothing wrong. Quite the contrary, Alexeij Valentinovitsch. She insisted to pass the stuff over to the boss, because she did not want your Babushka anywhere in a potentially compromising situation. She is a good woman and I think that it may be possible to let her in on some of our secrets."

"Continue!" Danilenko encouraged the bodyguard. His keen green eyes locked into Piotr's blue ones. He had already had a feeling, that Miss Sanchez had been a rare find , not only for Babushka, but potentially for the 'Bratstvo'.

"She is very upset that Ivan Andreijvitsch is in prison...even scandalised. I think, she is very fond of the boss and willing to do whatever it takes to get him out of BunkerHill."

"I see!" Replied Danilenko. There was nothing wrong with Ramona being in love with the boss. Sarnoff was well-bred, educated and polite, when he chose to be. He always behaved like a gentleman with the weaker sex and was very protective of those, whom he had chosen to trust.

He had observed the interaction between his 'Babushka's' governess and the boss for more then a year, during socialising and diner parties and he had not only seen the girl's eyes on Ivan Andreijvitsch ,but also the very expensive and carefully chosen gifts the boss brought for her.

His last gift, before Lieutenant Caine and that nasty little Wolfe had tricked him into prison, had been a 5000 Dollars necklace from one of Miami's most fashionable and hip jewellers, perfectly chosen to suit a young and pretty woman. Ramona wore it constantly!

"This is precious information. She may be of help, Piotr! But I do not want to get her in harms way....I'll think of it."

**

Horatio Caine could have enjoyed his weekend away from work. Habitually he did. He'd sleep late, forget about his job, eat a decent breakfast, read a newspaper, go and meet friends or simply enjoy peace and quite on a long hike in the Everglades National Park through the pine rocklands of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Wilderness Area.

He stared into his empty cup of coffee as if he could find some answers in there. They had messed it up. Rather badly. He and his whole team very dangerously close to get themselves into a downward spiral and Horatio felt, that somehow, this strange decline was his fault.

They had been through many a test and trial together, over the years and they had always managed to make it through the dark and back into the light, no matter how difficult or dangerous their situation had been.

Horatio leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. When had it all begun?

When Kyle, the son he had not known about, had come into his life together with Julia and all his former lover's personal problems?

He shook his head: It had not been Kyle and Julia, also he admitted that his professional conduct had been -at occasions- rather questionable, when it had come to this two people, who were close to his heart.

When he had stepped on the toes of Ivan Sarnoff and his Russian mob, following the brutal murder of ship owner Nathan Madden at Sarnoff's mixed martial arts club 'The Agean'?

Once again, Caine shook his head: It had nothing to do with the vendetta, Sarnoff had pronounced against him and his team.

They had seen this type of menace before; from arms dealers, private security companies, drugs dealers, the Mala Noche and even from inside the system in the person of former Miami Dade State attorney Monica West. No, the problem was not Sarnoff, although he was a fearsome enemy who had already proven to Horatio that even from inside a prison cell, he was capable to do tremendous harm.

Harm!

No, Horatio knew exactly when this downward spiral had begun.

It had been a very slow, but very harmful development, that had started with the homicide investigation at Coconut Grove after the murder of Jay Fisher, a well-known Miami jeweller and suspected drugs dealer. He and Tripp had taken that little dealer Johnny Nixon on the crime scene and Johnny's statement, that Eric Delko was one of his clients had brought Stetler and the IAB on the plan.

The case quickly became extremely personal, when Horatio got himself involved.

Ever since the Jay Fisher homicide investigation things had become extremely personal for Horatio, whenever Eric turned up on the scene. And even more so, after they had lost Marisol to the killer from the Mala Noche gang......

He gave a deep sigh. He was responsible for this downward spiral!

Responsible, because he had taken Eric's side against all others, even when Eric was wrong.

Responsible, because he had closed his eyes on many a mistake, Eric had made during investigations or outside in his private life and which had had an influence upon his crime lab.

Responsible, because he had accepted, that Delko returned to work much too early after him having been shot by a henchman of Clavo Cruz and responsible, because he was now closing his eyes once again on Eric and his out-of-bounds relationship with Calleigh.....and on the close knit entity they formed, excluding all others and living inside their bubble.

Horatio was thinking the events of the last few days over, trying to analyse every moment, since they had discovered their images on Cameron West's camera.

The Russian mob had been watching their every move and there had been absolutely no more doubt about the fact that each and every on his team were in danger. He had asked Eric to ring Wolfe and Delko had replied, that his cellular was closed down. He had requested that Eric would insist and call again. Had Delko done it or not? He had not the slightest idea and honestly speaking, after having dismissed Eric, Calleigh and Natalia and having taken his own leave for the day, he had not worried about Wolfe either.

The next morning, he had been too much occupied with the Ian Hamilton homicide in that downtown office tower to even realize that something was wrong with Ryan. Hell, they were all highly experienced forensic investigators whose job it was to look for the smallest detail and none of them - Horatio included - had noticed Wolfe's split lip, the slightly bluish mark on his face, the badly hidden marks on the skin of his neck, the dark shadows under the young CSI's eyes.......shouldn't they have wondered if that had perhaps something to do with him not replying on his cell phone....him going literally missing -together with an enormous, silver Crime Lab Hummer?

Horatio did not feel well. He felt guilty. Guilty of neglect of one of his own. And he had brushed off Wolfe last night on the phone. Not even a "Mister Wolfe, is everything ok, son?" from Horatio.

Thinking of it: He had never ever shown any compassion for Ryan and now he wondered that while he obviously had Wolfe's loyalty, he did not have his trust!

Horatio Caine knew, that he had lost Ryan's trust already a very long time ago....when he had fired him for this one single protocol mistake of not having told them what he had known; Ryan had been fired for having been directly linked to murder suspect Michael Lipton on the Brett Gibbs homicide investigation, and not disclosing it to Horatio and to Internal Affairs and not admitting to the fact, that he played poker for money during his free time.

The fact, that Wolfe also paid off his gambling debts with perfectly legal money had not even been considered but used against Ryan, when Yelina had shown them the tape recording. Horatio was fully aware, that Wolfe had inherited about two and a half million dollars from his grand mother at his 18th birthday and that this money had been placed in some old-fashioned trustee fund, where the young CSI had to request acces via a law firm that handled the entire legacy of Granny Wolfe, shared between several relatives, a foundation that granted a scholarship at University College Galway in Irland and a small arts museum somewhere in Massachusetts.

Horatio admitted now, that this had been an extreme punishment for a rather slight offence, that would have been better handled by simply taking Wolfe off the case.

Eric had done worse on many occasions and never ever even had to face the full-fledged wrath of IAB, because Caine had always put his foot down, before things would turn really nasty for Delko.

The Lieutenant carried his empty coffee cup into the kitchen. It was not a good idea to wait and let Ryan deal all alone with what had happened during these 12 night hours in the hands of the Russian mob and the follow-on day and investigation. He would go to the young man's place on Clemente Park right now.

Caine parked the huge Crime Lab Humvee right behind Wolfe's dark green LandRover. So his young CSI was at home, probably licking his wounds and brooding.

Horatio crossed the street and entered the pretty, old-fashioned garden in front of the beautifully restored house through a wrought-iron gate. He used the brass knocker on the door. Wolfe had no bell, but only a historical implement in the form of a lion's paw, that went with the atmosphere of the house dating back to the first half of the . There was no reaction inside. He knocked again, more insistingly. Still no reply.

Horatio wondered, if Wolfe would perhaps be in the rather large garden behind the house and allowed himself to trespass on private property for the sake of his team and its youngest member.

The garden was pretty, full of ancient azalea bushes in multiple coulours, ranging from pure white to blood red. But Ryan was not there either. Horatio looked up to the terrace on the second floor. It was a specific feature of these old houses to have a large, covered terrace attached to the upper level.

Caine had read in some book on the history of Miami, that this architectural feature had been imported from New Orleans and the French community residing there. It was -so said the book- a small range replica of the wrought-iron constructions that had been fashionable in France at the same time.

There was nobody on the terrace!

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialled Wolfe's service cellular. He had almost expected it. The phone was shut down. He redialled another number. His CSI's personal phone. No reply!

Horatio had suddenly the feeling that something was not right. He looked around and realized that Wolfe's old-fashioned house had a backdoor that led directly into the garden. For an obscure reason, this backdoor was not shut, but stood slightly open, as if somebody had forgotten to pull it closed.

He gave a deep sigh. Ryan had not been well on the phone, last night!

His voice had been subdued...shaky. And while his young CSI had been extremely tight-lipped about the 12 hours he had spend in the hands of that Russian mobster, Horatio had a fairly down-to-earth idea of what might have happened in the abandonned sugar processing plant. He, too had seen the battered body of Nathan Madden, the slip owner who had been unwilling to give up his home and had dared to try and fight for it at Ivan Sarnoff's gym.

He felt a tight knot in his belly.....and what if Ryan had been really badly damaged by that ruthless mobster and had been only too proud to tell? They had given him more then one reason to assume, that nobody cared..... Horatio let himself in through the back door.

Ten minutes later, he stood in Wolfe's kitchen and the tight knot in his belly had become something like a football.

While he could fully appreciate a clean and well-organised house, this place was too clean and too well organised, even for a man, who admitted that he had an OCD. The place litterally stank from cleaning products of all type and while he could imagine Ryan keeping his pretty place comfortable and cosy, he could not imagine the younger man obsessively employing bleach and desinfectant.

This house had not been cleaned...it had been treated like a former crime scene....including professional removal of victims blood etc. There were several private companies in Miami who did this type of job for unfortunate house owners after unfortunate violent incidents!

Caine decided that it was time to take a Crime Scene kit from the Humvee and find out, if his gut feeling was right.

When he had not even found the house owner's very own fingerprints on the light switches of the kitchen, he was certain. They had a problem about the size of a fully grown dinosaur......He decided to go upstairs and have a look.

And while the antic, bathroom and guest chamber were perfectly clean, he realised that in the master bedroom - he was sure, this was Ryan's bedroom, because he recognized some of his clothes in an antique cherry wood armoire-something was....strange. The smell of violent cleaning products hung in the air, but it was overlaid with a sweeter, more familiar smell....a smell of...blood.

He pulled on a pair of medical gloves, closed the shutters and let a blue-light torch wander over the bed and walls. The bed was clean, but the wallpaper -something like silken tissue and not really paper- revealed traces.

Habitually Horatio was not one to liberally use Luminol, but the situation was such, that employing the rather robust chemical was perfectly justified. He sprayed it all over the silken wall tissue. Hardly ten seconds later he saw a set of letters rising. And suddenly the text that had been written in blood on Wolfe's bedchamber wall became perfectly clear.

"Two million dollars for the hunter that will skin the Wolfe!"

Horatio Caine gasped. Ryan had tried to tell him after the Backdraft Case and Ivan Sarnoff's arrest, that the Russian mobster meant every word he spoke. So here it was, written in blood and legible for each and every CSI, who was capable of using Luminol Spray....Wolfe had been right. Sarnoff had meant every word he had said down in that parking lot on the Miami Horse racing Track.

He took a cotton and sampled carefully from the silk. Then he took a pair of scissors and cut a piece of tissue. He put both samples into plastic sample bags. Since Sarnoff had ordered someone to write a warning onto Wolfe's bedchamber wall, Caine was relatively sure, that the blood would not be his young CSI's. But he was also relatively sure, that something had happened to Ryan, that he was either once more in the hands of the Russians or that he was trying to give them the slip and handle this hit order on his head all alone.

He closed the field kit, closed the door of the bed chamber and left Wolfe's house through the same back door, he had come in. He started the Humvee, drew it out of its parking lot and hit the road, speeding towards the CSI Lab and perhaps....some answers to his many questions.

***

Wolfe felt well for the first time in the last almost 72 hours. The anonymous pain killer from the Paris Police Prefecture's ME had done him a world of good. He sat on a comfortable chair behind a mirror, which allowed the inmates of the interrogation room only to see their own reflection, but the people in the adjacent chamber could watch, without being seen.

A kindly fairy in uniform had pushed a cup of hot, strong coffee into his hand and he was nibbling on a fresh ham and tomato sandwich. Inside the interrogation room where Delveaux, now transformed back into a clean human being, JP and an older man in a pinstripped suit, white shirt and conservative dark blue tie.

His shadow -Timofeij Belkin- sat on a chair with hands cuffed behind his back. The elder man spoke to him. Pointing to the BlackBerry on the table and explaining that they had intercepted a e-mail communication between an IP adress in Miami, Florida, USA and a suspect, who was under investigation for grand banditism. The intercepted e-mail had been forwarded onto Belkin's BlackBerry. He was therefore sitting here under the charges of 'Association de Malfaiteurs' - 'Association of Criminals' and they would like him to explain in detail his connections with their suspect and his reason for being in France.

Wolfe smiled and took a sip of coffee. The junkkie, who had worked the BlackBerry during their ride from CDG to Paris was a wizard, and a miraculously lucky wizard. The older man in the dark business suit had not even mentuonned the drugs Officer Lamperiére had placed in Belkin's pocket in order to make sure that they could keep him in custody.

Belkin only shook his head and pretended, that he had no idea as to this e-mail and its originator. He insisted, that he was in Paris to attend a meeting.

"Je veux bien vous croire, Monsieur Belkin!" -« I am willing to believe you, ! » The man in pinstripes replied politely, "...but then, please give me some information. I will check it up and if your story is true, you will be out of this room in a nick....Tell me! Where is the meeting? With whom? What hotel are you booked in? I am perfectly aware of the security problems with this type of personal organiser...I want to believe you, that this mail was just SPAM...!"

Wolfe saw Belkin's back stiffening. The pin-stripped guy was clever. Without the slightest effort he had pushed the Russian against a wall...with no way out, but the truth.

Belkin's face hardened. It seemd, as if the man had no reply! Wolfe bend forward, closer to the mirror and listened attentively.

"I want a lawyer!" The alleged Russian mobster pressed through clenched teeth.

Pinstripped bowed his head politely."Please give me his name and I will see to it, that your legal counsellor is called immediately!"

Belkin's face turned ashen. "I....." He stopped and lowered his eyes. His broad shoulders slumped.

Now JP took the ring. He fumbled a small piece of paper from his pocket and read it out in perfect English. The conclusion of the session was, that if could not name a lawyer, a legal advisor would be given to him within 48 hours. For these 48 hours he would remain in the custody of the Paris PD. All that he might say or do, might be used against him, .etc.

Wolfe grinned, when he saw the predatory smiles on the faces of JP, Delveaux and the older man in the pinstrip. They had the bugger! He was in for it.....no explanations, no names in France, no lawyer....Belkin was cooked up like a pot of Irish stew. He gave a deep sigh, relaxed and put his empty cup of coffee onto a small table. "What now?" He asked the police officer who had taken care of tapping and filming the interrogation.

The man smiled. " Wait until they take the suspect to the holding cell. Then you may go and join the Commanders and the Prefect.

"Very well!" Wolfe replied and staggered to his feet.

He felt as if he were in heaven. No pain. The shadow safly tucked away in a holding cell and neither JP, nor Delveaux were desirous to prevent him from following the business. He wondered, if it would not be a good idea to finally ring up his father and Claire. He needed a bed and somehow he did not feel like camping at JPs with these two underage brats Mari and Gwen.

He loved the girls dearly; they were sweet little kittens and under normal circumstances he would endure them with good graces. But tonight -after literally 72 hours without sleep, 12 hours of excruciating pain and fear and a transatlantic flight, he simply did not feel up to a pillow fight or to an endless discussion about Harry Potter, or to a hard negociation when they could come to Miami next time or what he thought of Brad Pitt!

He just wanted to go home, crumble onto his bed and sleep....sleep for at least six hours and then have a very strong espresso and some breakfeast and perhaps an hour or two alone with his 'almost-step-mother' Claire. He felt that he had built up too much tension and if he would not let go of that tension, he'd fall to pieces...and there was only one single person on the entire surface of the globe with whom he could let go without feeling embarassed...Claire.

He had only the faintest memories of his biological mother - Mary Wolfe-O'Briain. He had been a toddler, when his mother had been blown to pieces by a car bomb in Belfast, together with his unborn sibling. He had been raised by his father and his granny, but neither had ever permitted Ryan to show whatsoever weakness.

They had loved him dearly, but Paddy and Granny had never been the most understanding people on earth. They had been too devoted to 'The Cause', the 'Patriot's Game' and he had just been the next O'Briain in line for that game.

His father -most of the time absent and remote- had taken great pains to instill into Ryan a ferocious hatred of everything English and to teach him 'Their History' and 'Gailte', the true language of his Irish homeland. And Granny .....yes, Granny had always expected him to be Paddy's son...and being the son of Padraig macDonnchada Ó Briain had never ever been an easy thing.

Ryan adored his father. He venerated the man...always had....but tonight he did not feel like adoring his father and looking up to Paddy-of-many-a-valiant-deed. He did not want to keep a stiff upper lip, drink a glass of very Irish Bushmill's with this manifesto of Irish Freedom from the Yoke of England and discuss all over again the history of his family since the days of the Dalcassian's....he simply wanted a shoulder to cry on and a soft warm bed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 11 Wolfe's Blood**

*****

Ivan Sarnoff was tough as nails and proud of his perfect self control and capacity to never ever show any kind of weakness, no matter the circumstances. But today was a Saturday afternoon and the one moment in time, he allowed himself to let the mask slip.

When visits time had been over, he had given 'Babushka' a gentle peek on her cheek and some soft Russian words of reassurance, that he'd be just fine and waiting for her next week.

Then he had gently lifted Ramona Sanchez chin with two caring fingers, locked his ocean blue eyes into her soft hazel eyes and kissed her. And instead of words, he had just let his tongue slip through her lips and into her willing mouth. The rush of blood through his veins had almost been unbearable, when Ramona had replied in kind and then caressed his cheek in a gesture of love and trust. It had been hard to leave the visitors room and her sweet flowery scent behind. He touched his cheek, where her hand had lain on his skin, hoping that her soft smell would stay with him for a little while, comforting and reassuring.

With a sad smile he carried his provisions back into the prisoners' zone of BunkerHill. The envelope and cell phone were securely tucked away in his orange prisoner's uniform. His brothers were already waiting for him. He handed 'Babushka's' goodies to one of them.

"Marja Feodorovna loves you all, boys! Enjoy!"

The brutish looking hulk, who had taken the cake chuckled and placed it on a table. His 'brothers', the select few who always surrounded Ivan at BunkerHill and saw to his security and comfort joined in. It was Saturday afternoon. The one moment of their time, when they were allowed to let go for some hours and behave like normal human beings.

'I love 'Babushka', too!" Jakov Wolinski, better known under his new American name of Jason Weller, replied. He had taken upon himself Horatio Caine's murder charge on Ivan Sarnoff for boat slip owner Nathan Madden and was Ivan's most trusted favourite inside BunkerHill.

Sarnoff smiled. 'Then eat up Jakov, or you will miss out the other goodies 'Babushka' has brought for us this weekend. There a pretty photographs of a special friend of yours, but you will not be allowed to see them, as long as you have whipped cream on your fingers!'

The other Russian mobsters in the group laughed, took their allotted parts of cake and formed an impenetrable ring of bodies around the boss. Sarnoff pulled Ramona's envelope from his pocket and spread out the screenshots of CSI Wolfe's ordeal.

'Pretty, isn't it?' He said with a nasty grin, enjoying each and every capture, as if it was a delicacy of Russian caviar, blinis and sour cream. He flipped his brand new and secure communications tool open and pushed the short dial for Valodja Nevzorov.

Meanwhile his 'bratja' enjoyed their slices of cake and the colourful reminiscences of the nightly ordeal of one of their enemies.

'I'd have loved to hear that little slug scream!' Weller remarked evilly. 'I could have flattened him with one of my fingers……'

**

Nobody had been really surprised to see Caine at the lab on his free day. The Lieutenant had no working hours; he was always on duty 7/7, 24/24.

He was pushing the traces from Wolfe's bedchamber through analysis. It did not take long and Horatio's suspicion was confirmed. The blood was neither Ryan's nor human, it was animal….He pushed the analysis some levels further and came up with a neat match for order:carnivora, suborder: caniforma, family: canidae, sub-family: caninae and species: canis lupus or gray wolf, also known as the "timber wolf" or "simple wolf", the largest wild member of the canidae family and a survivor of the Ice Ages.

This canis lupus most probably was no survivor at all, but rather the victim in another crime committed by Ivan Sarnoff's Russian mob. Horatio had to admit, that there was a certain morbid beauty in it all. Sarnoff's friends having taken the pains to provide the blood of a grey wolf in order to inscribe his death sentence on the wall of Ryan Wolfe's bedchamber.

He had a gut feeling, that his young CSI was not back in the clutches of their Russian enemy but rather trying to handle the problem –painted in blood on the walls of his bed chamber- on his own and without the help of Horatio and the rest of the team.

When they had stood together in front of the MDPD, seeing Marc Gantry and young Billy off, Wolfe had been telling him, that he was convinced that Sarnoff's pack wanted to break them.

Horatio knew, that his reply had been pretty stupid. "I say, bring it on!" That was nothing but a vain taunt and furthermore, the taunt had not been spoken facing their enemy, but in the presence of one of his own.

He pulled his medical gloves off, overrode the recording on the blood analysis equipment and shut it down. He had nothing better to do, then brag in the presence of the CSI, who had been trying to sensibilize him to the enormity of what was the Russian Mob, ever since they had dragged the cannibalised remains of one Vince Kozlov from the marshes of the everglades! So stupid.

Caine left the lab, stored his white coat in his locker and returned to the silver Humvee. He intended to go back to Wolfe's place, trying to figure out, what the young man was up too.

Ryan was out there. He knew. He was alone and perhaps not in good shape. He was most certainly still very shocked from his own ordeal with the Russians and from the roller coaster ride with Billy Gantry. And he was most certainly feeling once again rejected and humiliated by Horatio and his colleagues. He decided to keep Calleigh, Delko and the others for the moment out of this case. He took his cell phone and called Frank Tripp.

***

"We have now in a holding cell with a 24/24 surveillance." The pinstriped Préfect explained amiably to Wolfe, who was seated together with Delveaux and Moulin in a lavish office, furnished with beautiful museum-quality antics and displaying a range of costly XVIII. century paintings.

The office was on the top floor of the Prefecture Building, overlooking Paris at night, the Notre-Dame Cathedral and the famous 'bateau-mouche' on the river Seine.

Before continuing his explanations, he suddenly slapped his front in a rather boyish gesture and gave Ryan a broad smile. "Over this wonderful catch of a life mobster of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratva I completely forgot my good manners!"

He stood up, walked around his enormous mahogany table and stretched his hand out to Wolfe. "I kow that you are Padraig O'Briain's son, but you will probably not remember me. You were just a boy then."

Ryan gave the prefect a curious glance. Something about the high police official was indeed familiar. He shook the offered hand.

"My name is Erwan de Kersausson. As you may have understood, I am now the prefect of the Police of Paris and I believe you are sufficiently familiar with the French system to know what this means."

Ryan nodded. He knew the French system inside out. He had left the country only twelve years ago at age 20 in order to take up his studies at Boston College. The name de Kersausson rang a bell. He remembered. It was rather difficult to get up from the chair with dignity. The painkiller from the 'Morgue" had helped a bit, but now his killer ribs were back and hurting like hell.

" I know, who you are, Monsieur le Préfet!" He replied in flawless French. "I want to thank you for my father's life."

Once upon a time, when his father had found himself in a huge dilemma between his Irish cause and a sinister arms deal, that would have changed the balance of power between the PIRA and the British security forces in Irland spectacularly, but far beyond the conscience of Padraig O'Briain, de Kersausson, then a Divisionnary Commissary with France's internal security service DST, had offered a way out to his father, together with immunity, witness protection and the chance for a new life.

For Ryan's sake, Padraig had accepted the deal and betrayed his cause.

De Kersausson shook his head. "You do not need to thank me. It has been worth it, even if you do not know, to which extent." He fell silent for a moment. His grey eyes wandered over the younger man's face. De Kersausson was thinking hard. Suddenly he let go of Ryan's hand, returned behind his desk and became all business.

"Delveaux,…" he addressed the Commandant of the Organised Crime Unit, "Tu file une plaque et un flingue a notre ami!" – "Delveaux, give some police ID and a gun to our friend!" Then he turned to Moulin. "You get him home to his family now and there he will stay for at least 72 hours. Then –if he's up to it, he may come back…" He turned back to Wolfe. "First you take care of yourself and get some rest. In the meantime, I will arrange things with …." He paused and looked on a small, yellow post it on his desk,"….Lieutenant Horatio Caine –that is your superior at the MDPD, I presume….and make sure, that your unauthorised and impromptu leave of absence will not have any negative influence on your future, son!"

Ryan was hardly capable to hide his surprise, when Delveaux fumbled a Paris Police ID and a 9 mm Glock from a drawer in the préfect's office and pressed them into his hands. He took the items and stared at them.

'Thank you, Monsieur le Préfet…. ' he mumbled slightly taken aback.

"Do not thank me right now, Officer Wolfe!" The prefect replied with a smile. "We have still to trick the Ismaiylovskaya Bratva into believing us, the has never ever been taken into custody and has successfully offed you…..If we succeed, you may pride yourself, that you have delivered me the weapon to close down –at least for a time- the 'Bratvo's' regional office in France. Now off you go…."

He did not look up from his desk and a pile of important looking papers, but simple waved out Delveaux, Moulin and their US colleague.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 12 The Wolfe's Lair

*

Nevzorov stood on the beautiful terrace of 'The Forge' overlooking the white beach and the deep blue sea. His employees were preparing the restaurant for tonight's opening. As usual, 'The Forge' was booked until the last seat. Situated at 432 Forty First Street Miami Beach it was one of the finest and most fashionable eat-outs in town.

Night after night , the sweet smell of money mingled with the heady aroma of dry-aged steaks cooked on an oak-fired grill. For 30 years, the Forge has been culinary ground zero for Miami's well-off and well-fed.

This had not changed, when for and on behalf of the 'Bratstvo' Vladimir Nevzorov had acquired the place from its former owner for a rather modest price.

Inside, the ornate decor features antique brick walls, pressed-tin ceiling, giant tapestries and stained-glass windows were pristine. The deco had been the former owner's choice, as it had been his choice to prefer money and his life to a rather violent death and no money at all.

Nevzorov and his hand picked staff continued the former owner's culinary legacy: Steaks, chops and grilled fish, prepared with little regard for current culinary trends, dominate the long and pricey menu.

Now, the Forge had also one of the world's finest wine cellars. This was nevzorov's doing. He prided himself on good taste and good ideas. In addition to his five dramatically elegant dining rooms, the Wine Cellar and the Forge Bar, select guests were now also invited to visit Nevzorov's adjoining nightclub, Jimmy'z at The Forge and The East Room at The Forge, the greatest private event space in Miami. The handling of these places had been entrusted to Gregor Kasparov, a recent climber from the 'Bratstvo' ranks, who had show dedication and brains. Vladimir observed Gregor discussing with one of their three events managers. They sat at a small table, enjoying some fine white wine from South Africa, that Nevzorov had undug recently on a wine auction and went through the bookings for the evening show.

Nevzorov prefered it that way. It was better that Gregor kept out of this whole CSI business. They needed at least one man with a pristine record to maintain the business if ever something should go wrong. The other man, whose record was kept pristine was Alijosha Danilenko. But Alijosha was different from Kasparov…..he lacked Gregor's ruthless ambition and was much more down-to-earth and reasonable.

Nevzorov reflected upon the discussion he had had with Ivan Sarnoff a bit earlier in the afternoon. Ivan approved that Tim Belkin had followed Ryan Wolfe overseas and encouraged the idea to team up with their Paris-based brothers in order to get rid of the CSI. But while Ivan was enthusiastic about the developments in the 'Wolfe Case' he was also prudent. He had insisted that Nevzorov would take each and every precaution that if ever Belkin should make a bad move overseas, nothing could be traced back to them.

The owner of the Forge flipped a handmade luxurious cigarette from Benson&Hedges London from its silver casing and lighted it with a silver Dupondt lighter. He inhaled deeply. Tomorrow morning at the first hour, he'd contact Danilenko and ask the IT wizard to isolate Belkin's BlackBerry from the 'Bratstvo's' Intranet and secured internet and place it upon an independent account, unrelated to them.

Ivan was perhaps a bit paranoiac at times, but it was never a mistake to be extra carefull!

**

Ever since Commandant Jean Paul Moulin had left their house to meet his son at the airport, O'Briain had been as high strung as a composite olympic bow. First he had paced the living room like a caged, wild animal, driving Claire Charpentier almost crazy. Then he had taken to starring out of a window into the night, standing there motionless and silent for almost three hours. Now it was four o'clock –Sunday morning- and Paddy had finally broken his unhealthy and unsettling silence.

"Why doesn't he call!" The former head of PIRA's intelligence said softly. Never ever since Jean Paul Moulin's bloddy showdown with the serial killer of the Huelgoat had Claire seen O'Briain in such a state of complete emotional uproar. In his normal state of mind, Paddy was the most self-possessed living being, Claire had ever met and never one for showing overwhelming feelings or wearing his heart on his sleeve. Many people, who knew O'Briain only superficially considered him cold and remote. She knew perfectly well, that this was not the case. The man rather boiled like a vulcano inside.

She laid a slender hand on his broad, muscular back. She felt him trembling. "Paddy, please try and be reasonable. Ryan is not alone. He is with Jean Paul and at leaast a handful of Delveaux's people."

O'Briain turned around to face his soon-to-be wife. "That does not discourage these people." His eyes were still the colour of the Atlantic during a winter storm and as hard as diamonds."The Russian…." He said softly, "…they are afraid of nothing…..not even death!"

Claire shock her head. "Do not wind yourself up like a clockwork. This does not help. It will not change….."

Just before she could finish her sentence, they heard the noise of a car, moving up their driveway. O'Briain shock of her hand, crossed the living and the entry as if the devil was on his heels and flung the door open.

Claire could literally feel the tension that had buildt up in the house during the last few hours disappear into nothingness. She recognized Jean Paul's voice, then Paddy's and finally the voice of Ryan. He sounded tired and a bit downtrodden, but he was home and he was in one single piece. At a leisurly pace she rejoinded the three man outside.

Paddy stood in front of his son, hands on his hips, shaking his head and biting back something she had not seen in his eyes for a very long time: Tears! He did not even manage to say a word.

Ryan hung his head. His shoulders slumped. "I could not drag you into this,Papa!" She heard him say in a soft voice. "Not before I was sure that this man was off my heels."

Claire smiled. They were so much alike, father and son. The same built, also Ryan was not yet as broad-shouldered and square as Paddy. The same square, determined, stubborn jaw. The same eyes –only one blue the other brown-that could turn from silent waters in a second to storm over the ocean. The same gestures and mannerism. Ryan also had this habit to put his hands on his hips, when he wanted to make a point or cross his arms over his chest, when he wanted to be left alone. And that was precisely what he did now.

Jean Paul Moulin just smiled, waved Claire a good bye, went back to the police car and drove out of their property. JP had always been one who behaved with the utmost tactfullness, instinctively understanding when his presence was welcome and when not.

It took a little while before the staring contest between father and son was over. Claire chuckled. For once, it was Ryan who had won. Paddy gave up, flung his arms around the younger mans shoulders, and drew him into a bear hug.

Ryan winced and Claire realised that his knees were giving in. She had not intended to intervene :Paddy and Ryan were family and they had the right to enjoy a family moment completely of their own, even if she had been part of O'Briain's life for almost half the lifetime of his son. But she was also an M.D. and the fact, that someone almost fainted, just because he was hugged was something that smelled fishy. Even some around the clock work and a transatlantic flight were no explanations for this type of weakness. This was physical. Already when she had heard his voice, she found it…..not as it should be. Claire disentangled the two man and softly admonished her soon-to-be husband "Give him some breathing space, you big prat! Let us get into the house and have a cup of tea or something. Ryan must be completely exhausted and it is almost 5 o'clock in the morning!"

O'Briain obeyed immediately. His son shot her a grateful glance that said more then words. He followed them inside and literally sank into a cosy armchair in their living. Claire noticed that he did not take off his jacket and tie to make himself comfortable, but buttoned up. She had the feeling, that the young man insisted on hiding something.

"Tea, the two of you!" She asked her males friendly, accepting for the moment to play her stepson's game.

Paddy shock his head and served himself a tremendously stiff whisky. Ryan refused his father's offer of a glass and accepted Claire's invitation. "Rather some herbal stuff for my! Do you have lime-tree blossom or something that type?"

Claire nodded and went into the kitchen, putting some water onto the hearth and preparing their cups, honey and some pastries on a plate.

"Now, will you tell me what is going on, Ryan?" She heard Padraig's voice.

"Tomorrow, Papa! I will explain everything tomorrow….not yet…peace…I am dead tired and between the jet lag and almost three days without sleep perhaps not very coherent."

O'Brian seemed to accept his son's explanation. "Have it your way, young man!" He gruffed. "But tomorrow you better explain yourself….these people are highly dangerous and the will never ever give up, no matter the price they have to pay!

***

Sergeant Frank Tripp had been surprised after Caine's phonecall. They were both off duty for the weekend and Horatio habitually would not bother anybody on his team during their time off. Nonetheless he had abandonned a round of friends, with whom he had been out fishing on the pier of Miami Beach and immediately driven over to the adress, Horatio had indicated.

It was in the Wynwood Art District, a rather expensive area, where old-fashioned but nicely resored houses stood side-by-side with glass and steel art galeries, museums, painters' studios and the homes of the cities Puerto Rican community. It was therefore also known as 'Little San Juan". The sergeant wondered what Horatio may want and who'd be living in the small but cute 1830 villa that harboured a brass plate indicating that it was a 'Historic Monument of the City of Miami'. Being a Texan by origin, Tripp had not even known that a simple house could be a 'historic monument'.

Caine must have seen him arrive, because at the moment Tripp stepped inside the gardens, the main door opened.

"What the heck, H.?"

"Come in Frank! I am sorry to have disturbed you on a saturday afternoon, but I do need your help!"

Tripp entered and with the experienced eye of a long-time police officer took in the surroundings. It was a beautiful, well cared for house and its interior – mostly antique European furniture – matched up perfectly with the exterior. The kitchen was cream coloured and absolutely pristine. To Tripp it gave more the impression of a miniature museum of the 'Good Öl'Days' then of a lived in place. Furthermore a rather upsetting smell of bleach and cleaning products huung in the house.

The sergeants eyes fell on the newspaper on the kitchen table. It was foreign. He gave it a closer look. "Some Frenchie living her, H. or what?"

Caine had not seen the newspaper before. He took it carefully with gloved fingers. It was three days old. "No,.." he said to Tripp. "This is CSI Wolfe's place!"

Frank Tripp chuckled."Wouldn't have thought it on first sight....although…bloke who's wearing fancy Italian designer ties and German designer suits may be quite capable of having a bunk like this. What's going on? Gambling again?"

Horatio took his sunglasses from the pocket of his jacket and put them slowly on. He stemmed his hands onto his hips and turned slowly over to Tripp. "Not in the habitual sense, Frank!" He said in a very serious voice. "It is rather…I am afraid, that is trying to play on his own a very dangerous game with our friend's Ivan Sarnoff's bunch of mobsters!"

"What! He must have finally gone over the edge. Always said, it was no good for a man to have too much brains…"

Horatio chuckled. Frank was one of the few living beings, who could make his point and hit the bull's eye straight and at the same time, make you double over with laughter…even if this situation was far from risible. He took of his sunglasses, folded them and put them back into the pocket of his jacket.

'I am afraid, Frank, that it was maybe us, who pushed Mister Wolfe over the edge. Come with me upstairs….I want to show you something." Horatio took the French newspaper and put it carefully into a large plastic bag. The house may have been asepticised by whoever had written in blood on the bedchamber wall, but he strongly doubted that these people –the Russian mob-would have also paid attention to a French newspaper on a kitchen table.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 13 Taming the Wolfe

*

He had always known that life was fragile and as Shakespeare says 'can be ended with a little pin". Ryan Wolfe gave a deep sigh of content, when he was finally capable to retreat to the guest's room Claire had prepared for him. He had spend about one hour with her and his father, telling them that the situation was now in hand and there was no need to worry overmuch.

It had been the longest hour of his life, much longer then the 12 hours he had spent with his Russian tormentor hardly 2 days ago.

Thinking back, he was even a bit surprised, that he had taken these 12 hours relatively well: From his own job as a police officer he had known what everything was about, after the first surprise and shock after having been taken had passed.

Interrogation can take different forms, but these had all a similar aim: to control the subject in such a way that it yields to pressure and provides the information being asked for.

He had been often enough on the other side of the table –being the interrogator- to fully understand the mechanisms of the entire exercise. And while physical pressure had always been out of bounds, beyond some occasional roughing up of a subject, that was mostly limited to a shake or a push or a blow at best, he had himself more then once employed methods that could be called – by more sensitive bystanders – psychological torment. Contrary to many other civilized countries in the world, the US allowed a police officer in an interrogation to lie to a suspect in order to contrive the subject to a confession.

The Russian had tried exactly this; to control him and to "soften him up", so he would comply with the 'Bratstvo's' demands. The task of breaking someone's spirit involves the coordination of activities, and the use of certain techniques and technologies at certain times. He had been slightly taken aback by the Russian's choice of techniques and timing.

Wolfe stood by the window of the guest room, looking out into Claire's beautiful garden and watching the sun rising. He shook his head; the mobster had been a rather bad interrogator. He could have saved himself approximatively 11 hours and 50 minutes of efforts, had he come straight to the point immediately after Ryan had recovered from his blow over the head.

Thinking back, it had been a rather strange experience: In a classic police interrogation blows had only scant criminological significance. They were tacitly practiced all around the world and accepted; a normal measure employed against recalcitrant prisoners unwilling to confess.

Blows were applied in more or less heavy doses by almost all police authorities, including those of the civilised, Western-democratic countries. And while Ryan did know exactly, that they led to nothing, he had also been in situations –when in the heath of an interrogation or after severe psychological stress during a police action- his fist had slipped. He was perfectly lucid concerning his own potential level of violence and the surrounding factors required to make him strike out.

The Russian mobster's thing had been different: That violence had been perfectly controlled, even if in the end, the man had understood that it was a fairly useless undertaking with his subject.

Not much is said, when someone who has never been beaten makes the ethical and pathetic statement that upon the first blow, the victim loses its human dignity. What was that, human dignity? One person thinks he loses it, when he cannot take his daily shower or bath. Another believes he loses it, when he has to speak to an official authority in a foreign tongue. Human dignity had so many faces, from personal convenience to freedom of speech to political freedom or freedom in the availability of sexual partners of the same sex. Ryan did not know, if a person lost its human dignity at the first blow from a police officer during an arrest or follow-on interrogation. Yet he was sure, that with the first blow that descended onto such a person, this person lost –at least temporarily- something that might be called "trust in the world", trust in the world in that sense, that by reason of written or unwritten social contract the other person would spare him, would respect his physical and therefore also his metaphysical being. The boundaries of the body were also the boundaries of one's self!

And the Russian mobster had trespassed upon these boundaries of Ryan's self!

At his first blow, Wolfe's trust in the world had broken down.

In almost all situations of life where there was bodily injury, there was also expectation of help; the former was compensated by the latter. A soldier wounded on a battlefield knew that there was the chance to be recovered by either his own medics or the Red Cross, a police officer wounded on duty knew that the utmost would be done to get him into an ambulance and to the ER, a child that hurt itself knew that its mother would come to help……

Surprisingly, after that and with trust shattered to pieces, he had recovered extremely quickly as soon as the shock had faded: It had been a strange, joyful surprise that the pain was not at all unbearable. The Russian mobster's blows had acted after a while as their own anaesthetics and all Ryan had been thinking was "Hit me as much as you like, it will get you nowhere!"

Either the Russian had been very thick, not realising that, or he had simply enjoyed inflicting pain. Ryan did not really care. It did not matter. It was over and he was done with it, at least at the strictly intellectual level where abstraction of the entire situation would allow him to simply store that whole night away in a far off corner of his brain, never to be retrieved, never to be pondered upon. At a lower level –the guts level- these twelve hours would stay with him for a lifetime. The torture would be ineradicably burned into him, even when clinical traces of the event would no longer be detectable on his body.

He had simply been lucky, because especially in regard to the possibilities to manipulate and falsify a CSI enquiry, there was not the slightest chance for one single CSI to do so on his own and without the help of his colleagues. What the Russian mobster had wanted him to do was simply impossible! If he had seen whatsoever possibility to comply and do what the had asked him to do, he would have done so. A calamity would have occurred, an innocent man would now be in prison for a crime he never ever committed and he would stand here, watching the morning sun rise as the traitor and the weakling he most likely was.

Yet it was not at all that he had opposed his tormentor with the heroically maintained silence that befits a real man in such a situation and about which one may read –almost always incidentally in reports by people who had not been there themselves or in novels.

He had talked, he had screamed his lungs out, he had struggled and kicked and he had tried to reason with the man, telling him honestly that it was impossible…in the hope, that the Russian mobster would see reason and after such incriminating disclosures, with a well-aimed blow to his head, would put an end to his misery and quickly bring on his much-promised death.

A soft knocking on his door tore Wolfe out of his musings. He had almost expected it, having realised that Claire did not believe him and had only played along for a while.

"Come in, please!" He replied softly.

**

They had gone through the house top to bottom and were once more back in Wolfe's kitchen.

"He had no intention to leave, Horatio!" Tripp was a methodical man and the first thing he had checked was the freezer. Nobody intending to leave would fill up his freezer with fresh food for the weekend. And from what he had seen Wolfe had done a normal shopping for a normal weekend at home….well, normal was a big word for what he had seen in the freezer. That bloke seemed to cook….fresh veggies, fresh fruit, nothing to just stuff into the microwave and swallow quickly in front of the telly. Had no television set either, just books, books, endless ranges of books and CDs with music. Nothing really to Frank's taste, but a bit less excentric then the choice of books. Most of them were in French and the others were scientific stuff, biochemistry, genetics, chemistry, physics. Loads of these.

Frank had been surprised that Wolfe's personal computer was not even password protected. He'd run it up and without the slightest resistance from the machine had been inside. Used it as a sophisticate typewriter! Ryan was obviously working on his PhD. Frank had found quantities of scientific stuff on the machine, a lively e-mail exchange with some professors at Boston College and tons of handwritten notes, mainly formulas and calculations. What had been absent from Wolfe's inbox were personal e-mails, things from friends or sweethearts.

These things were entirely entrusted to handwritten correspondence. On the young CSI's desk, Tripp had found a leather folder with personal communication. Most of it in French, a little bit in English and some in a language he could not identify. He showed such a leaf to Horatio.

"Have any idea what this is, H:?"

Caine smiled and shook his head. 'No idea, Frank! But we will find out. But I agree with you, he had no intention to leave. It must have been a on-the-spot decision caused by circumstances.' He handed Tripp a ticket for tonight's presentation of 'The Dragon's Kiss' at the Gusman Center of the Performing Arts. He had wanted to watch this Japanese legend of a powerful crystal egg that holds ominous powers himself and knowing how difficult it was to acquire decent tickets, doubted that Wolfe would have bought one, just to let it rot in a wicker basket.

"And while I am not entirely familiar with my CSI's wardrobe, I do not have the feeling, that he packed whatsoever, Frank." Caine continued. "He must have left in a hurry."

"And where is he now?" Tripp asked curiously.

Horatio smiled. "What would you do, if you come home and find this type of menace written onto the wall of your bed room?"

"Give you a phone call, H.!" Frank replied without hesitation.

"Indeed, you would Frank, because I never ever pushed you with your back against a wall…..I made a huge mistake yesterday, my friend! I pushed Ryan against a wall and left him with no way out."

"What?" Tripp went over to the freezer, took an apple and the milk bottle and went rummaging for a glass in Wolfe's kitchen. He had been on the Miami pier since sunrise and had not eaten breakfast. Horatio decided that Frank's idea was not bad at all and joined him at the kitchen table. He had some explaining to do.

When the milk bottle was empty, Wolfe's food reserve for the weekend thoroughly plundered and he explaining done, the homicide detective gave a deep sigh." Sometimes, H., you are really an asshole, you know! Poor kid! I do hope, that you come up with some kind of brilliant idea to set things straight and get him out of trouble….preferably unharmed."

Caine nodded. Tripp –once more- had made the point. "I do have an idea, Frank!" He pointed at the French newspaper that still lay on the table, neatly covered by its protective plastic bag."I think, that Wolfe may have left the country….which is basically not a bad idea, because it will make it much more difficult for Sarnoff's people to follow him."

"You think, he gave the slip to Canada?" Tripp enquired. Would make sense with a Frenchie newspaper. He could have simply crossed the border with nobody realising it . There was hardly any control between the two countries and if he'd taken some plane and then one of the trains, he'd be sure to go undetected.

"I do not think so, frank!" Horatio replied. "This is not a French Canadian newspaper, but a newspaper from France over in Europe. Let's check with the airlines and see if we find Ryan on any of the Transatlantics."

"I have an old buddy at America Airways!" Tripp proposed reasonably. "I will call him immediately. No need to go through official channels, I think."

Caine nodded his approval.

***

Although he had been completely unwilling to tell her what had happened, Ryan had at least allowed her to check him up. Claire had been a little bit shocked, when he'd flinched at her slightest touch, breathing heavily, like a panicking animal. It had taken her almost half an hour of careful coaxing to get him simply out of his jacket and shirt. Under normal circumstances, Ryan was not shy at all. He had known her for half his lifetime and did not mind her seeing him in whatsoever state of undress. She was the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother and she knew perfectly well, that Padraig's son –even while growing from boy into man-had never seen her as a female. She was Claire, not a woman in front of which he might feel uneasy for reasons of gender tension or hormones.

When he had had his eye problem, after that crazy woman had shot him with a nail gun, he'd not only allowed her to check up but stubbornly insisted that she'd do it. He had even refused to consult over in Miami and simply taken some antibiotics prescribed by their ME Woods.

He'd already gotten himself shot on service and had not cared, when she had bullied him out of his shirt during a visit to France in order to have a look and see if he was ok. He had not cared for his father to see the mess either and he had not hidden it from JP and even from the girls Mari and Gwen, who rather undiplomatically and without invitation had dared to touch his scar. And he had not flinched then, just joked with the girls and told them that they find more interesting reminders of a policeman's professional hazards on their father, if they'd dare to undress him.

Ryan had never ever been self-conscious in this respect. Claire was a very experienced ME and had not been made for nothing Director of the lab at Garches. She was considered to be the best in her field in France and she knew immediately what had happened to her step-son and why he could not talk about it….would probably not be able to talk about it for a very long time She gave a small sigh.

"Ryan, there is no way around for you!" She said gently. "I do not want to know and I promise, I will not ask you any questions. There is nothing I can do now and I will let you sleep as long as you need to sleep. But when you are up to it, we'll go to Garches and and I do some x-rays and a sonographic examination.. Just let me make sure that there are no complications upcoming….its stupid to risk pneumothorax for the sake of male pride!"

"Claire…."

She lifted her hand and gave him a hard look that did not encourage any opposition. "Ryan, I am fully aware that you are 32 years old and major and that you can do whatever you like, but there is a certain limit to idiocy and you are terribly close to crossing that border line."

Wolfe nodded."Ok, Claire! You won. I do not want to fight with you…"

"Better not, Ryan!" She gave him a hard look. Her lips curled in an uncompromising smile and she snatched the Glock and the French police ID from the bed table." Erwan de Kersausson may have given you this shit and Carte Blanche to do whatever you are going to do together with that rascal JP, but I can promise you, that my arm is almost as long as Erwan's. Believe me, son! After more then a quarter of a century in the business, I do have the power and the connections to prevent you from even putting a toe outside this house………."

Ryan shock his head. "Claire, listen! I am not an idiot. I am pretty much aware of the situation. I do know, that I have at least two broken and two bruised ribs and that there may be either damage to the spleen or the liver. I am not an MD, but I have been living with one for quite some time and I have a certain notion of anatomy etc."

"Ah!" Claire replied, a gleam of victory in her eyes. She knew exactly how to handle the males of the O'Briain family. "So you admit that you feel like crap, look like crap and belong into a bed!"

Wolfe nodded. She was right and he settled down on the bed without further resistance. He allowed Claire to tuck him in, as if he were a three-years old, relished in her soft, caring hands on his face and even accepted her kiss on his cheek unflinching. It was stupid to behave like that. He was dead tired, but he knew exactly that he'd not close an eye, if he'd not tell her…simply let go and trust –once again- a human being. He took her hand, sneaked his other arm around her midst and curled up against her like a kitten. Then everything spilled out. He told her…from the very beginning and down to the last, gruesome detail. She did not say a word, just listened and gently stroked his shortcut, brown hair.

In the end, he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Claire was thoroughly shaken, chiefly because Ryan had told her in such a detached and unfeeling manner…as if everything had happened to somebody else. She decided not to disentangle herself from his dead grip but simply stay and hold him until he'd wake up.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 14 Cats and Mice

*****

The "Direction centrale du renseignement intérieur" or Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence - DCRI is a French Intelligence agency which reports directly to the Ministry of the Interior. It became officially operational only on 1 July 2008, through the merging of the Direction centrale des renseignements généraux – the Central Directorate of Intelligence - RG and the Direction de la surveillance du territoire – the Directorate for the Surveillance of the National Territory - DST of the French National Police.

This brand new agency was kind of an inbetween of the FBI and the Department for Homeland Security and with an annual budget of 41 millions of Euros in its first year of existence, 3600 agents, 85 % of whom where cleared to the level of "Sécret Défence" rather impressive in manpower and size.

Its eight sub-directorates worked on economic protection, counter-terrorism, intelligence technologies, cybercrimes, violent subversion and counter-espionnage. They had an own IAB, their own central administration independent of the French national police and a own supplies and support structure and were located at 84 rue de Villiers at Levallois-Perret in the departement of Hauts-de-Seine, at about 6,5 km from the center of Paris and their normal national police colleagues on the Ile de la Cité. Their building was brand-new, high security, equiped with top of the notch technologies and whatever available fancy IT gadget, mot of them customized for the DCRI's special purposes.

This impressive building was the very place to which Tim Belkin's BlackBerry had been transported, after some IT-wizard at the « Brigade d'Enquêtes sur les Fraudes aux Technologies de l'Information » -the Special Brigade for Cybercrime of the national police had had a go on it. They had not given up the BlackBerry to 'BigBrother' because they would not have been capable to handle the job themselves, but rather because they had handled it so well, that they now needed the top-of-the-notch equipment of the Cybercrime guys at Levallois-Perret. Préfet Erwan de Kersausson's IT-wizards carried on their uniform badges a very cheeky cat, toying with a mouse. And this symbol was more then justified.

Jean Paul Moulin, whom Kersausson had maintained on the Belkin Case for a variety of reasons, although the Russian Mob was not strictly speaking a terrorist group and Francois Delveaux of Organised Crime had accompanied their IT-wiz and the BlackBerry to the DCRI.

The fourth man of the team that sat in a state of high exitment in a pristine computer lab that buzzled and sizzled like a bee heave and was filled to the crack with all imaginable high tech gadgets, was a 1,95 cm bear, with broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, piercing blue eyes and high, Slavonic cheekbones. With his impressive muscles and scarred face, he looked more like a professional boxer or wrestler, then a police officer.

The man was in fact very rarely at the premises of his employer on Ile de la Cité and hardly ever appeared there in the bright day light or through the front door. His name was Serge Poniatowski. He was 4th-generation in France of ancestors that had fled Russia during the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. He was a former special forces officer with France's crack unit 13ème RDP and now working as undercover agent for the national police.

Other his linguistic skills in English and Spanish, Serge was fluent in four Slavonic languages; Russian, Polish, Bulgarian and Czech. And he also spoke Albanian and Romanian.

He had been infiltrating South-Eastern, Central European and Russian organised crime on the French territory for the last 10 years and was still alive to tell the story.

Delveaux had requested his services, because they did not intent to let Belkin loose. They were rather fancying to replace with one of their own in order to lay hands upon Alexandr Rossinski, alleged boss of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratva French branch and lieutenant-commander of the infamous Oleg Ivanov. Belkin's BlackBerry had given them not only the necessary information on how to contact Rossinski, but also on how to convince him, that the man in front of him was a 'Brother' from the US and belonging to the soldiery of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratva Miami branch.

Delveaux had explained to Poniatowski what they had learned from Ryan Wolfe and from Belkin himself and the first message the French undercover tipped in Russian language into Belkin's BlackBerry was a message to some Vladimir Nevzorov in Miami, explaining that he was hot on the heels of CSI Wolfe, but that it might take some time to accomplish the hit and kill the target.

"Ok, this is done!" The police officer stated matter of factly, having pushed the send button and relaxing in his chair. "What next?"

"Next, we are going to contact Rossinski and you arrange to met him in order to ask for his help with your hit job, Serge!" Explained Moulin, taking the BlackBerry from his colleagues hand and passing it over to the DCRI IT expert. "And you….you try to track this BlackBerry back to its need a precise geographical location together with IP etc."

The young IT expert of the national police Cybercrime service took over, explaining in short and precise words what he had found out the night before and that the POA was indeed connected into a network composed of a secure LAN with an intranet and a secure internet.

"I believe…" The boyish, bespectacled computer wizard explained, "…that the network administrator over in the US might take this BlackBerry soon off their secure LAN and put it on an independent computer. This is at least what I'd do, if someone having passwords and access codes into my secret realm is beyond my physical reach and control for a while. These Russian blokes are very good with computers and IT stuff and what I have found on that BlackBerry proves, that we are playing against a very high-flying expert, a world class programmer!"

His DCRI colleague nodded, plugged the POA into a complicate-looking device and ran a set of programmes. "Indeed, world-class!" He stated with awe. "I have seen quite a lot in here, but this is much better then the stuff from the Al Quaida programmers….much better." He requested a couple of hours of peace and quite, called in several of his colleagues from their Sunday off and set to work. " We keep you posted, guys!" He said to Delveaux, Moulin and Poniatowski. "Send us someone tonight, who can pick up the BlackBerry. Would you like us to put some tracer on it, too?"

"Yep, do please." Poniatowski said cheerfully." I rather like to cover my ass, when I go out for lunch with the Mob!"

**

Préfet Erwan de Kersausson left the office of his boss at Place Beauvau. He was very satisfied with the conclusion of the sixty minutes discussion he had had with Madame le Ministre – the French Secretary of the Interior – Michèle Alliot-Marie. He had been authorised to proceed against the Ismayilovskaja Bratva in Paris. Madame le Ministre had accepted and cautioned that Belkin, although a citizen of the US and not directly implied in an act of crime allowing the application of "loi Perben II du 9 mars 2004" and a prolongation of provisional detention to 96 hours could be maintained in detention –for exceptional circumstances- for six days under the new extension of Perben II applicable on terrorism and pressumed acts of terrorism.

This had been a rather unsuspected victory for de Kersausson. When he had asked for and being accorded the interview with the Secretary of the Interior, he'd assumed that he would leave with 96 hours and her blessings. But she had listened to him very attentively and understood perfectly well the unique chance they had to set up one of the most dangerous criminal organisations on their national soil.

Erwan de Kersausson was now on his way to the Quai d'Orsay, France's Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Madame le Ministre had requested interministerial support from her Foreign Affairs counterpart and the Quai d'Orsay had agreed to help them.

The French Embassy in Washington, D.C., was the largest French diplomatic mission in the world. On the Embassy's political staff, the legal advisor had several technical attachées who maintained liaison with US law enforcment agencies including the FBI. Furthermore, they supervised the liaison officers of the the French Consulate general's branches in Atlanta, Boston, New York, Houston, Chicago, Detroit and Miami.

De Kersausson needed the help of the Miami guy in order to officially get in touch with Ryan Wolfe's superior Lieutenant Horatio Caine and to convince this officer, that they should cooperate on the Ismailovskaya Bratva case. For a number of very good reasons, he and his superior in the Ministry of the Interior had agreed to not include the FBI and to circumvent the heavy machinery of the US Federal Law Enforcment.

De Kersausson also needed to talk directly to this Caine guy in order to smooth down Ryan Wolfe's impromptu and unauthorised leave of absence and request his bosses authorisation to integrate his CSI into the French team that would hunt down the 'bratija' in Paris. In exchange for Caine's good graces and guarantee, that Wolfe's act – the circumstances were truly extenuating and the young man had had literally no other way out – would not influence his career at the MDPD Crime Lab in a negative manner, he'd give Caine the intelligence his IT-wizzards had retrieved from Belkin's BlackBerry together with further intel from their attempt to hack into the Bratva Miami Branch computer system.

He knew that he was offering the American policeman an excellent deal….so good, that it was impossible to refuse. And the cost for Caine was minimal: The French police would do the IT fiddling and fidgeting, which was the hard part, and serve Caine on a platter their results….perfectly employable as proof in front of each and every judge of the country. And in exchange, Caine had simply to promise not to take disciplinary sanctions against one of his officers, who had in fact done nothing –apart attempting to save his skin from a hit order of the Russian Mafia. If that Caine man was not a complete asshole, he'd not even need de Kersausson's little blackmailing attempt to see the truth and comprehend his CSI's action.

Under similar circumstances, a French police officer under his authority would neither face IAB nor even been brought to the attention of himself. The guy's direct superior would ask what had happened, check the veracity of the explanation and in such a case with a hit order of a highly dangerous crime organisation involved, send his man together with family on full pay off to some green prairie until the shit was over.

De Kersausson shook his head, when he leaned back on the backseat of his black service Renault Laguna, indicating his driver that their next stop would be Quai d'Orsay. That Caine must have been completely blind or completely ruthless: If even he recognized -without being an MD or familiar with CSI Wolfe - traces of severe abuse on the man, how could his direct superior, who worked with him on a daily basis do not? It had been literally impossible to oversee the abomismal physical state in which the young police officer had been. This together with the man's own admission that he'd been spending a whole night –against his will-in the hands of a crime organisation, that was well known for its extreme cruelty would have meant under de Kersausson's authority, that such a police officer would have gone first to a medcheck and then straight to psychological evaluation in order to figure out what had happened. He'd never ever allowed one of his own to even come close to a criminal case until things had been straightened out and made clear.

But Miami was not Paris and the MDPD were not his boys. All he could do, was to speak with that American copper and propose his deal.

***

"Gotcha!" grinned one of the French IT-wizzards inside the DGRI building at Levallois Peret. Hardly 20 seconds later, the BlackBerry of that Russian belkin mobster the colleagues held in detention down at Ile de la Cité was unhooked from the LAN on the other side of the Atlantic.

"Pretty careful you are, little prat!" The French supervisor who was observing over his man's shoulder stated with a broad smile. "But not careful enough…"

While the BlackBerry was off and no longer usefull for them, they had something much better now. The were inside the Miami Branch of the Ismailovskaya Bratva and a huge and powerfull server of the DGRI was downloading all contents of Aliosha Danilenko's carefull constructed LAN and Intranet. They would drain the servers on the other side of the Atlantic till the last Ko, while the tiny little electronic undercover agent of the DGRI would infiltrate the system, find itself a cosy place somewhere in between the DLLs of the exploitation software and report on a daily basis back to Paris.

"Well done, Lise!" The supervisor padded his IT-wiz, a girl of hardly 20 years of age, with a punky haircut, several facial piercings and a colourfull tatoo under a Lara-Croft-Tank Top on the shoulder.

The girl chuckled evily, took a sip from her RedBull can and continued hacking like a maniac on her key board. She loved her job. She had been a hacker since she was 12 years old. After she had sucessfully hacked her way into the secure network of the French MoD at age 17, a judge had condemned her…….to work for at least 5 years with the newly created Cybercrime Department of the French Interior Security DST. When DST had merged with RG to become DGRI, she had gone straight into the new premises of the new service. No parol was given to the best hackers of the country, even if they behaved well and performed even better. But she did not mind. She got a nice paycheck and was allowed to perpetrate her sneaky little cyber crimes….legally now! She even got extra money from Uncle Sarko for the development of extra-nasty stuff, like her little spy, who was now enjoying the Sunshine State and Miami Vice…

****

Aliosha Danilenko rubbed his tired eyes. He had been working 48 hours non stop. Half of the time in order to hock Belkin's BlackBerry of his network and put it into a safe place somewhere far away from his principal server. He had managed the job beautifully. Ivan Sarnoff had been right to advise Nevzorov to play it safe with Belkin out of the country and out of touch. But he would have appreciated, if Valodija Nevzorov had called him immediately after Ivan's phonecall. In cyberspace time was everything and the quicker you were, the safer you were. He shout down his computer, stretched his weary bones and left his company HQ. The fingerprints gloves were ready too and now all they had to do was to wait and see and keep their eyes on Lieutenant Horatio Caine and his pack.

He decided to pay a Sunday afternoon visit to Babushka and Ramona Sanchez. While working double shift, he'd been pondering upon the words of Piotr considering Ramona's devotion and willingness to take risks on their behalf. And while he did not want to put the girl into harms way, ther was a nice little job for her, if she really wanted to support Ivan through his gastly stay at BunkerHill.

Cameron West, that greedy little paparazzi and part-time rogue, had sucesfully blown his anonimate with Caine and his friends in the MDPD. Furthermore, the guy had a big mouth and could not keep it shut. He'd see to it that he'd be discreetly dispatched off. A good job for some young and untried soldier on their payroll. He'd leave it to Valodija Nevzorov to chose a hitman.

But Ramona Sanchez was completely unknown. She had no criminal record at all. She was as white and pristine as a virgin. She would be perfect to keep a very discreet eye on Horatio himself. Not all the time, just when he was off duty and out of reach of their other spy eye inside the MDPD CrimeLab.

Anyhow, he did not like the place where Ramona and her brothers lived. It was not safe for a single woman of her age and beauty. It was not, what he'd call a decent neighborhood and the boys ha to go to a prep school with human scum. There was drugs dealing in front of the school and some Latino gangs were making the environment even more insecure.

He flipped his cell phone open and called a real estate's agent, who owned him something. Lieutenant Caine lived in a very nice place, safe, secure with a good prep school close by. It was private, but that was no problem. The 'Bratva' would pay for Ramona's brothers' education. Anyhow, the had no use for undereducated people and it was never too soon to think of the next generation that would fill the better jobs in their business.

"Hello Peter!" He spoke into the phone."This is Alex Daniels calling. I have a little request. You see, friend of mine, she would like to move with her youngsters into…….Yeah, you see, that is right next to 's PrepSchool….exactly…and the MaryHope Clinic. Yes, excellent place…..can you help me to find something pretty for her….you see, with a garden for the boys and as close as possible to the school, so that she must not worry if they go on foot."

Ten minutes later the deal was done. Peter, the real estate agent had exactly what 's lady friend would need. And since had assured him that money did not play a role, they agreed to meet a bit later that evening, with the future inhabitant of the place and the actual house owner.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 15 A Matter of Truth

*

Horatio knew, that Ryan Wolfe would not be all that happy about the invasion of his privacy, but at this moment it was easier for him and Frank Tripp to set up headquarters on Clemente Park then in the MDPD.

While Frank had been away to charm the passengers lists on the planes from Miami to Paris, France out of a former colleague, who had left the Department to work as Head of Security for American Airlines Miami Branch, he had reviewed the bedroom and the bloody inscription on its wall.

It had been possible to get a rather good photograph of the menace and he'd been running it to a database with writing samples from various criminals. The database had been an idea of BonaVista, when she had received her research grant that had allowed to transform their premises into a lavish, top-of-the-notch CrimLab.

A name had come up, but it was impossible that this filed criminal had written the menacing words. Dimitrij belkin was dead. Horatio had shot the mobster himself 48 hours earlier when freeing little Billy Gantry from his clutches. So Mister Belkin had probably a sibling –a son or a brother- whose writing was sufficiently similar to turn up a 78% match in the database. Horatio made a note to check this discreetly with immigration. A man whose father or brother had been killed was more liable to act with determination against the perpetrators of that killing. And if he appreciated the Russians at their right value, family matters were of the utmost importance to them. So it was possible that Sarnoff from inside BunkerHill had set a killer onto Wolfe's heels who had a cause.

He stared moodily at the French newspaper. He would run it for fingerprints, but logic was, that a newspaper had many fingerprints on it: From the postal services through which it had transited, to the local postman and its owner. While the origin of the paper, together with Wolfe's collection of books was an excellent hint, the paper in itself may be not.

He flipped his cell phone open and called Neill Hunter, a prison guard at BunkerHill with whom he was on friendly terms and who had agreed to keep him posted on Sarnoff's activities inside the Detention Facilities.

"Neill, sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but are there any news from our mutual friend?" He enquired.

The voice on the other end of the line requested some rowdy children to shut up for a second, because Daddy had some work to do. Then he greeted Horatio. "Indeed Lieutenant Caine. I intended to call you anyhow on Monday. I was on duty, yesterday for the visiting hour. Ivan pulled quite the show. You remember, I told you about that old lady and her governess, who come to see him every week.'

Caine replied in the affirmative. He'd run both, finding nothing on either, besides the fact that Ivan Sarnoff was born in Nizhnij Vartovsk, Russia like the elderly lady, Marja Fedorovna Danilenko, who visited him. But Granny was as white and as pristine as a freshly washed bed sheet. She had come to the US about a year after her grandson had settled down in Miami. Her grandson was a respectable computer expert, with a PhD from some Russian University in It and Applied Mathematics. He ran a IT company with no history and his principle clients were film and music studios, who acquired sound-enhancing software from Danilenko's company. Danilenko held an international patent for this software, was a regular in IT-standardisation organisations in the US and abroad and a guest lecturer of Miami Dade University in applied maths. Horatio even knew, that the Russians had nothing against the man, because their Moscow Embassy had checked him out before he received his US Passport. The guy's company was even a sub-contractor to an American defence contractor with their MoD. He presumed, that the old woman knew Sarnoff perhaps from their days in Russia and visited him for this reason.

The young woman who accompanied her was also as white as only Snow White could be: Hard-working, tax payer, perfectly legal and taking good care of two younger brothers who did very well at prep school.

"Tell me, Neill!" He encouraged the prison guard.

"Well Lieutenant Caine! It appears, as if the old lady is really nothing more then a Russian acquaintance. But the young chick….from what I saw, she is rather Sarnoff's girlfriend, then the old lady's governess. Ivan had his long fingers all over her yesterday and even from my position at the door I could almost hear her moan with delight. That was quite a hot show. I never believed that Ivan had it in him…."

Caine chuckled softly." We all have a soft spot, Neill! Thanks a lot and keep your eyes open."

He hung up, went over to Wolfe's pristine gas hearth and a device that looked as if it dated from before WorldWar I. He supposed that this thing was an espresso machine and he wanted a coffee desperately. He just needed to figure out, how the device and the hearth worked, without blowing up his CSI's home. Things had never been easy with Ryan. His prehistoric device was just another proof of this!

"H.!" Tripp's deep voice tore him out of his musings. Frank had used the back door to enter the premises and was just standing in the kitchen door. He held a folder with printouts in his left. He went over to the hearth, pushed the folder into Horatio#s hands and motioned to his friend to get away and let the expert work. "You check through the passengers' listings, I make the coffee, man! Takes a bloke from Texas to use these things. You know, we too, still live in the backwoods down there."

Horatio gave up his place gracefully."Didn't know you could operate such a hellish device!' He yoked, opening the folder and starting to run his index down the names on the first printout page.

When Tripp served a hot, strong and pleasant smelling black brew in two delicate, hand painted cups, that were probably twice as old as the espresso machine, Horatio had reached the end of the relatively short listing.

"Only three flights left!" Horatio stated matter-of-factly. Ryan is neither on the AA via Orlando to Paris nor on the UA via JFK, but I may have something on the French carrier, the AF 95 direct to Tscharles Digaulles….. "He assumed this was Paris Airport and pronounced the name American style.

"Charles de Gaulle! » Tripp corrected him to his great surprise. "Have been over there on our honeymoon with the wife some 20 years ago.. that is Paris Main Airport."

"Ok, Charles de Gaulle!" Horatio repeated, pronouncing the name correctly. He hated it to look like some uneducated hunk, although languages had never been his strong. He only spoke relatively convenient Spanish, because he had been living in Miami for a very long time and could not avoid it, but it was still either Delko or Wolfe who translated, when they had voice tapings of Hispanic gang members to analyse.

"You remember the name of the Russian mob, I shot?"

Tripp nodded. "Belkin!"

"Indeed!" Horatio pulled his sunglasses from his pocket. Sunglasses firmly in place, he revealed in five short and determined words to Frank, that one Tim Belkin was on the AF 95 passengers list. Once the implements of justice back in the pocket of his striped shirt, he held the list out for Tripp and pointed another name: Ryan-Padraig Wolfe O'Briain, Irish EC passport, no return flight indicated.

The passenger with the curious double name, that partially resembled CSI Ryan Wolfe's patronymic had a one way ticket only, but nonetheless. "May be interesting to try and check that one out, too, if we can. Should be registered with the Homeland Security Database if he already has a biometric passport. If not, there must be a visa request somewhere."

Tripp finished his coffee and got up. "I'll do it, H. I come back to you, as soon as I have something interesting."

Hardly had Frank Tripp left the house on Clemente Park, Horatio Caine's private cell phone rang. Since there were only very few people, who had his number, he was slightly surprised as the voice on the other side of the line identified itself.

**

Habitually O'Briain was an early riser and belonged to a special race of people who defied even the holy laws of France on Sundays. But after the roller coaster over his son and the Ismailovskaya Bratva, he had been completely exhausted; emotionally as well as physically.

He gave the clock on the bedside table a cursory glance. The last time, he had slept till lunch hour….He'd never ever slept till lunch hour. He considered such an act high crime and only grudgingly agreed to staying under his sheets till seven in the morning during winter time and when Claire nagged, that she needed her human warm-water bottle.

Claire's side of the bed was empty. He knew, that she had never come to join him and he was convinced that this was due to the fact, that she had stayed with Ryan. He felt a warm rush of gratitude in his heart. He had not been blind. He, too had realised that his son was not only completely drained, but also in a state of physical distress.

Padraig O'Briain was a very keen observer. Buttoning up his jacket had not helped to hide all the bloodstains on his shirt and the angry, red welt around Ryan's neck, just where the collar ended had told the former IRA more then a thousand words. It was a ligature mark!

He skipped his morning shower, not to wake up his son, who was hopefully sleeping it off in the guest room upstairs and dressed. Then the professor of Celtic Studies tiptoed down to the kitchen, brewed some strong coffee and prepared a solid breakfast. When he was finished, he tiptoed upstairs and without the slightest noise opened the door of the guest room.

From his place in the door he saw Claire, sitting unmoving like a statute. She turned her head and gave him a smile. He smiled back, relief on his face when realizing that his son slept peacefully, his arm slung around the midst of his soon-to-be wife and his head resting in her lap. Claire looked a bit tired from a sleepless night in a rather uncomfortable position. O'Briain used the internationally accepted basic sign language for food and hot drink and motioned to her, to disentangle from what seemed to have magically transformed into a kind of octopus.

Her lips formed the words "Help me!" And in a joint effort they managed to unlock Ryan and Claire without waking up the former.

"He told me everything!" She explained to Paddy over a cup of coffee on the terrace in front of the kitchen. Her muscles were still slightly sore from having been a motionless pillow over several hours.

"How is he?"

Claire shook her head. "Not well at all, Paddy. As soon as he wakes up, I take him to Garches for x-rays and sonograph. He has been subject to severe physical abuse."

O'Briain snorted. Claire was an MD and employed the vocabulary of an MD. "You mean "tortured", Dear…..for that is what the Bratstvo habitually does to people who step on their toes and have the misfortune to fall into their hands. It's a miracle he's still alive and compared to their habitual standards probable even in 'good shape'." He spat the last two words literally.

When still the Chief of Intelligence of the PIRA, Paddy had had many doings with the 'Bratstvo', they being a discreet and inexhaustible source of weaponry of all kind, his organisation had needed desperately in their fight against the Brits. But his connections with the Russians dated back to long before the fall of the Soviet Union. In their strategy to slight the capitalist oppressor states – the UK was top of the list, preceded only by the US- Moscow had been for decades a willing provider of training camps to 'Freedom Fighters' of every colour, as long as they had the 'Socialist Touch' on their labels. And while fully qualifying politically, PIRA's relationship with the USSR had not always been harmonious.

More then once, Moscow had seen to it, that O'Brian was delivered the gory remainders of one of his fellows in order to make a point over some misunderstanding or difference in political doctrine. And later on, he had lost precious lives of very brave fighters to a similar tendency in the 'Bratstvo', although differences between the Russian Mafia and the PIRA were less not grounded in politics, but rather in economics!

Such an economic dispute together with its collateral damage – several hardly recognisable corpses that once had been comrades of Paddy – had led him, to break with both sides, the PIRA and their Russian provider of military hardware. Also his former comrades had been much less annoyed with O'Briain, then the 'Bratstvo'. Since Paddy had not chosen to go over to the British foe, but to the French and since he had betrayed nobody in PIRA, only blown a fatal weapons deal, they had pardoned him after a while. With the Peace Process in Northern Irland under way and a strong desire inside his former organisation to acquire political respectability together with political influence and acceptance from political players all over Europe, they had finally made him something of an informal "ambassador" with the French, a role he played extremely well.

But the Bratstvo had never ever forgotten, also many years had gone bye. Oleg Ivanov, 'vozhd' of the Ismailovskaya had still a standing hit order on O'Briain's head together with lavish head money for the happy killer, who'd bring him the bloddy skin of the Irish wolfhound! And now his son had a similar hit on his head…..problems with the Russian mob seemed to run in the family!

Claire padded his arm gently. "Yes, you are right. This is exactly what happened, but I believ that Ryan would not like to hear this word, when you talk to him. From a mental point of view, he is coping extremely well. Your son is pretty solid, you know. But you may not wish to push the button too far. It will take some time. Believe me."

"I do not intend to distress him, Claire. You may assume, that I have a certain experience with situations, like the one he was in. I have done my time with the RUC1 and with the Brits and while they have never managed to reach the professional heights of the 'Bratstvo' when it comes to sheer sadism, they had been hardly…….easygoing partners in an afternoon chat." He gave Claire the genuine and patented 'O'Briain-the-Bastard' sarcastic smile, but there was no real punch in it. His clear blue eyes staid peaceful waters, not changing into stormy-ocean blue, as if he meant business.

"Did he tell you more…about what happened in Miami, what his boss did to unsettle those Russian rascals so much…?"

Claire shook her head. Ryan had been extremely tired and not very coherent in the end and she had just picked up about a racket on boat slids in a posh Miami marina, some homicide investigations and con game on the Miami Horse Racing Track!

O'Briain decided, that it was time to ring up JP and ask the police officer a few questions. Even if Moulin had told him that Ryan wished Paddy to stay out of this whole business, he had no in a disposition to demurely comply with his son and every intention to stick his nose very deep into this business. He had already been successfully wrestling with that Russian mob, when both JP and Ryan still went to prep school.

The fact, that he was still alive and very much kicking, notwithstanding on Oleg Ivanov's desires was proof of him handling these bastards rather well, even if some of the credit went to his French friends in high places, who'd conveniently clean up behind him, when one of Ivanov's men, notwithstanding utmost prudence came too close to him.

***

The bed was soft and warm. The duvet was tremendously comforting and so where the natural sheep skins underneath, that Claire fancied over standard cotton or flannel bed sheets.

Ryan felt hardly any pain, if he did not move too much. Claire had had the good sense to put a generous dosage of a strong, morphine-based analgesic into his veins, which explained probably the light-headedness. He smelt the delicious scent of freshly brewed coffee that was drifting upstairs from the kitchens into his room and he was hungry.

Claire had been right to push him and make him tell the story. It had been relief to speak the words and get rid of the thoughts that had harassed him, ever since that Russian mobster –Dimitrij Belkin- had kicked him unceremoniously out of that van.

He tried to turn around. A soft hiss escaped him, when his raw back made contact with the soft sheep skin. A piece from a plastic water hose was a frightful instrument in the hands of a determined and strong man. And that Belkin guy –may he rot in hell till Doomsday- had been very strong and very determined.

Ryan tested the solidity of his knees. He wanted to stand up and go to the bathroom and he would go there, even if that meant to crawl on all fours. Before he could even think of drinking coffee and eating food, he had first to get completely rid of the smell of that sugar refinery that still hung on him…..together with the smell of his own fear. He had only cleaned up superficially after the mobster had released him. His priority had been to simply disguise the event from Delko, Calleigh and Horatio.

It took him some time to get onto his legs; after almost fainting three times in a row, he decided that the wall would make a good, solid friend. Anyhow, his eyes were still hazed and he hardly distinguished the room from the bright sunshine in front of the windows. Fortunately the bathroom door was dark oak and while it seemed to move a bit, he was convinced that in the end he'd somehow get through it and into the shower.

He had told Claire about the night, but he had not felt up to tell her about the following day: He had obviously managed to get through that day, the case had still gotten solved and the boy –Billy- got saved. But Ryan had not gotten over the accusatory looks from his co-workers. He hadn't confided in Eric or Calleigh about what had happened to him, because their looks had told him immediately that they could not care less. Anyhow, they tended to never give him any slack and their constant little snubs –over almost five years now- were clearly intended to keep him in his place…which was…down under.

It was exactly this attitude together with a building full of people constantly comparing him to a dead man he'd never known and coming up short to in their eyes, due to the fact that he still existed and breathed air, while Tim Speedle was gone and rotting to dust in his shallow grave, that had created in Wolfe a strong reflex to never ask for help. Calleigh's and Delko's impatience with him seem like they were punishing him for just being being himself. And so was Horatio's blatant favouritism and covering up for these two, while he was perfectly capable of opening himself the knife, into which he would let run Wolfe….without any warning.

Somewhere deep inside, this attitude hurt , even if – on a strictly intellectual level- he did not care.

He loved his job and enjoyed the work he did, the intellectual challenges and the practical application of science gave him deep professional satisfaction…a satisfaction he was not willing to give up, just for the sake of the emotionally less stressful environment of some university research lab or a research job in industry. Power games were plaid everywhere and working relationships in highly competitive environments never tended to be easy. This was the top reason, why he kept his private life….well, strictly private.

They did not like it and Delko, more often then once, had reproached him with being a jerk and not knowing the meaning of team work.

Wolfe managed to get into the shower. That had been quite an effort, but he was in: No all he needed to do is open the taps, mix a convenient water temperature and prepare himself for the small shock that warm water would be on raw skin for a few moments. He had coped with his nosy co-workers for almost five years. He'd cope with the stitching and itching of the water for 5 seconds.

Somehow it worked: After almost 25 minutes under the warm water he felt like a human being again. The analgesics veil lifted from over his eyes, he saw clearly where he was and unfortunately also the spectacular transformation that Belkins craftsmanship had worked on his body. He was tremendously tempted to throw the towel over the mirror instead of using it on the tasteless composition in various colours that reminded him slightly of the later works of Pablo Picasso.

He hated Picasso! He had never understood, what that man tried to tell the spectator through his paintings. Shaving was not an option and he'd survive this day with five o'clock shadows. Claire and Paddy wouldn't care and he doubted that the x-rays operator at Garches would make an unkindly remark. It was basically an excellent idea to have that x-ray. Already running a soft towel over Nr.5 to Nr.9 was torment, but his knees were pretty steady now. He managed to fumble some clothes out of the armoire in the guest room….as ample as possible. Best not to test if he'd manage to slip into a T-shirt. Then he decided that he could manage Claire's and Paddy's staircase without breaking his neck.

It took nonetheless ten minutes to get from his room down to the kitchen and when he finally slipped into a chair on the terrace – watched with slight horror by both his father and Claire – who were taking a very late breakfast, he felt as exhausted, as if he'd run a cross country half marathon.

"Bonjour, vous deux!" –« Good morning, the two of you ! » He mumbled, slightly ashamed of his rather foolish behaviour and embarrassed by their horrified eyes.

"You…." Claire started.

"Can I just have a cup of coffee and some toast, before you give me a well-merited piece of your mind?" He asked innocently, looking at his father and soon-to-be step mother with hazel puppy eyes.

1 Royal Ulster Constabulary


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 16 A Matter of Honour**

*

The supervisor snatched the sixth RedBull can from the hand of his IT-wizard whose eyes were glued on the screen like a leech to a particularly tasty blood vessel.

"That's enough, Mademoiselle Duprès!" He said. His voice was hard. He had been handling these IT-crazzed folks –most under the age of 25- for many years and knew exactly when the time had come to put his foot down. The girl had been working for the last 24 hours non-stop. Also she seemed literally doped by the sound of the buzzling Hard Disk that downloaded from the Russian Mob server in Miami, she was bleary-eyed and he had realized that she was fidgety…had not been to the toilets for hours and needed a pee desperately.

The girl gave him a nasty look, but he could not care less. "This works without you sitting in front of that screen like a cat sits in front of a mouse hole. You leave now. You will stay out of this lab for at least 12 hours. If you come back earlier…." He did not need to finish his sentence. The girl –Lise-stood up, snatched her can from his hand and put it back in the drawer and nodded. "Ok, boss! But'ya call me if their's something crazy!"

The supervisor nodded.

A group of six analysts sat around a table in a conference room next door. They were going through the printouts and could hardly believe what they were reading. These Russian guys over in Miami seemed to keep everything on their IT system!

It resembled strangely to a company history from A to Z: Projects under way, projects accomplished, short term strategic planning, long term strategic planning, accountability, human resources evaluation of collaborators and annual reviews for the years 2004 to 2009.

One of the analysts shook his head: "That is absolutely incredibly!" He sighed. " He had found documentation on an Off-shore company with a Bahamas address, dealing in ship slids in posh marinas in Miami and southern Florida. The habitual prices, that off-shore paid, when acquiring slids, was around 10.000 US, while the sales prices ranged between 800.000 and 1,6 million US. "These are benefits, I'd say!" He explained to Commandant Francois Delveaux, who sat with them, listening avidly, while his brain worked on high speed.

"Interesting, but no good for us. We will pass this over to that Caine bloke on MDPD. Does it look legal?"

The analyst, he was a financial expert and professional accountant shook his head. "For the innocent and on first glance, yes! But as a matter of fact, according to Florida's laws on real estate, it is absolutely not. If you compare the prices, you see that there is an enormous difference between acquisition and sales price. The maximum allowed in Florida would be 25%, then some special taxes would kick in and even if the company's off-shore, these taxes are taken directly at the notary's level, when he creates the sales act. I could not find anything in this respect."

Delveaux smiled roughishly. "Meaning that while they may not be able to squeeze that bunch of Russian mobsters for high crime, they make make their lives miserable on tax fraud?"

The analyst chuckled:"Just like Al Capone. Remember, Eliott Ness got him on tax fraud….."

"What else?" Delveaux asked. "Anything that connect them to our special friend Alexandr Rossinski and the French branch of the Ismayilovskajya?"

A female analyst showed him some printouts. "There is indeed. And in my view, the things I found out have potential, although it may not be useful at all to the guys in Miami."

She explained in short words to Delveaux, that the electronic equipment was perfectly legal on the US market and that there were no restrictions on it. Whoever had the money could buy such a surveillance and site protection, although it was more common in high risk industrial facilities or with the military, then with some humpty-dumpty private person. They issue was: The specific systems that had been acquired in France and via Rossinski were subject to a very severe French export restriction and a so-called end-user certificate.

"They have scanned in the shipping docs. On arrival the stuff became perfectly legal. US Customs could not care less. But I can tell you, that our Customs blew up, when letting it leave France. Rossinski's company did not request an authorisation to export from the MoD, they did provide an end-user certificate either. Well, this may make a bit of noise, Commandant, because from my point of view some sales manager at Group SAGEM will have to face a very serious enquire, may loose his job and will find himself in prison for at least 24 months….and the Customs guys who checked the cargo on Roissy-CDG will face an IAB Board for sure…..but we have Rossinski….for illegal sales of high tech goods subject to specific MoD regulations. He will not spend a lifetime in prison for sure, but his company can close doors and my heart sings, when I think of the penalty he'll have to pay to the Treasure."

Delveaux clapped his hands, applauding the analyst and gracefully bowing his head to her. She gave him a most charming smile.

"You..", he told her five colleagues, "…keep up your good work. And we…" He pointed at the young lady,"…come with me. We have a state attorney to see."

"He'll be enchanted on a bright sunny Sunday afternoon!"

"I guarantee you. He'll be enthusiastic."

Delveaux left the DGRI premises with the female analyst and her attaché case full of wrought-iron proof. They sprinted to the parking lot and literally jumped into the Commandant's service vehicle, a blue German four wheel drive. He turned on the engine and immediately pushed the dial button of the car phone. The loudspeakers were on. Moulin replied and Delveaux briefed him quickly. Then he called their undercover agent Poniatowski and gave him the go to contact Rossinski under the false identity of Tim Belkin. They had retrieved Belkin's US passport and the document had undergone a rather clever makeover, so it would correspond better to Poniatowski's outward appearance.

Without the habitual traffic jams that made Paris and its greater region a mad-man's house to live and work in during the week, it took them less then 25 minutes to arrive at the state attorney's place in . As foreseen by Delveaux, the man –notwithstanding the fact that he had to leave the family table and a tasty looking fruit cake – was enthusiastic. He had been dreaming of an occasion like this for months, ever since he had to let Rossinski go with excuses, after they had been unable to prove the mobsters involvement in a gory murder of a police officer.

Francois profited shamelessly from the attorney's good mood: "Monsieur,.." he asked,"…the man whom we have in custody…is there something you can do…we cannot let him go with that undercover operation launched, but according to the law, we must release him tomorrow at midnight."

The attorney shook his head."You must not, Commandant. He's been taken care of. Préfet de Kersausson called me and we shall keep him in isolation for at least one week under Perben II amendment 1. He may not have a lawyer and he may not talk to anybody, apart you guys."

Delveaux gave a curt nod. « Monsieur l'Avocat Général Adjoint ! » He left the magistrate with the female analyst who'd brief him in, told her to call a taxi, when she was finished and hurried off to gather his team. None of them would object to break up their Sunday afternoon and return to work. This was too good an opportunity to be whimsical. Once Rossinski bagged and off the streets of the French capital they'd all recuperate and take well-merited time off.

***

'Lieutenant Caine?" The voice was polite and well-bred and while the caller spoke perfect English, it was tainted with a soft accent that somewhat reminded Horatio of New Orleans and the deep south. He replied in the affirmative.

The caller identified herself as Commandant Regine Marais, legal attaché at the French Consulate General Miami Branch Office. She excused herself politely for having called him on a Sunday and for having used his private phone number. And she admitted immediately, that this phone number had been obtained through "specific contacts", which was the diplomatic description of some intelligence devices, that the French had probably running on US national territory without the Americans knowing it. But it also worked the other way round and while both countries behaved civilised and where longstanding and stout-hearted allies, they were also unforgiving concurrent at many levels, the first of which was defence technology and military hardware.

The attaché seemed very tight lipped about the reason for her call and spoke only of matters of utmost importance to certain law enforcement organisations in her country and a link of these matters to some recent enquires of the MDPD CSI.

Horatio had a gut feeling that he knew precisely what Commandant Marais refused to talk about on a cell phone. The French diplomat suggested to him, that they might perhaps better meet face to face, if this would be convenient to him and indicated an address at Coral Gables.

"I shall be there in 30 minutes exactly!" She told the police officer, "And I would appreciate your coming alone, for the time being."

When Horatio asked her, how he'd recognise her, she assured him, that she'd recognize the Lieutenant. He gave a small sigh, acquiesced to the proposal and shut his cell phone.

****

Ryan Wolfe sat on the x-ray table at Garches Hospital's ER, his feet dangling and his eyes fixed on a set of x-rays that were fixed to a screen. Claire and a colleague of hers examined the shots attentively.

" Numbers Five to Nine are broken, Numbers Three and Four definitively bruised." Claire's colleague stated matter of factly. "Clean breaks, Madame le Professeur! There should be no complications and I exclude the risk of pneumothorax." He scrutinized the results of Ryan's sonographic examination and shook his head. "No damage to the liver, that is a fact. Lungs are perfect…..wonderful lungs, bye the way!" He stated, as if Wolfe was not even in the room and he was discussing with Claire about some business that did not concern the CSI. "But the spleen is bruised. That will be a pretty painful reminder of whatever happened to your young man for the next three or four weeks at last."

Claire turned to Ryan. "Tu vois, cheri! C'est pas si banale… » -You see, sweet ! It is not so innocent…"

Her colleague turned his attention from the x-rays and sono to Wolfe. " From a medical point of view, it would be the best if I keep you for a couple of days, . This would be wise! Considering the fact, that you already explained to me, that this is not an option for you and considering the fact that Madame le Professeur is an M.D., I will release you under her care. But I must impress upon you, that you should not try and fool around….physical efforts so to say. You also tell me, that you refuse the steroid and morphine-based painkillers adapted to your situation. I will not try and talk you into these, also you may wish in a couple of hours that you'd taken my prescription."

Ryan nodded. "Maybe, but there is no way you make me take this stuff. It gives me the creeps."

"Then, my friend, you'll be obliged to take it very easy and to behave very reasonably. I shall see you in three days time for a follow-on examination. Should you start to cough up blood once more, you must immediately come and see me. Your spleen is bruised and it is swollen. Should you be stupid enough to ignore the symptoms, you may lose that spleen and I believe, that you are fully aware of what that means to your health."

Ryan lifted himself carefully from the x-ray table. "Je sais, Docteur! Je reviens, si jamais il y a problème! » - « I know ! I will come back, if there's a problem !"

The ER M.D. gave Wolfe a hard glance, then he turned back to Claire. The two doctors did not talk, but only exchanged desperate looks.

From the ER M.D.'s body language, Ryan could deduce without the slightest problem, that the man was mightily pissed with him. But nothing in the world would make him take morphine-based painkillers again over a certain timeframe. He'd been on that stuff for about a week, when he had been shot while still on patrol and he had gone through hell, when they had taken him off the drug. He'd rather have the pain, then the psychological stress when the drug was off. He had been irascible for a months afterwards and not really in control and if there was one thing Ryan Wolfe could not bear, then it was to loose self control. He knew, that he was quite capable to deal with pain, but he was unable to deal with loss of control.

Once, many years ago he had called this incapacity to deal with loss of control OCD – Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder – just to make Horatio Caine stop asking him questions he was unwilling to answer, also he knew perfectly well it was not that rather obscure illness that causes people to have unwanted thoughts and to repeat certain behaviours over and over again. Ryan had no obsessions and no compulsions in the OCD sense of the words. He was just….who he was and this included, beyond other things that he avoided losing control, did his tasks well, assumed his responsibilities and cared for those close to him.

That was no OCD…just a matter of education and perhaps conditioning during early childhood.

After his biological mother's and unborn siblings violent death, Ryan had found himself for a long time literally alone with a father who led a very dangerous life and had a highly illegal occupation. Paddy had never ever lied to Ryan about what he was doing or why. Wolfe had still some very early memories of disconnected body members, a completely destroyed car and blood, blood all over and of a huge crowd of people who gathered around that horror, gasping and peeping. He had been three years old then and like most three years old boys in Belfast he was not frightened of the sound of a gun or the explosion of a bomb. He'd heard it before and he'd seen it before. But that time, on this 26th June 1980, it had been different. His father had fetched Ryan at the kindergarden, because his Mum had been to a meeting of the Irish Republican Socialist Party of whom she was a high-ranking, important member. Paddy had always been the man in the shadows, while his mother had fought for Irland's freedom in the bright light of the day. Ryan remembered, how his father had lowered his head and simply turned away from the scene. When Wolfe had asked Paddy about Mummy, his father had taken him into his arms and turned around and had told him unflinching and truthful, that his mother had been blown to pieces by a car bomb and that there was nothing they could do about it and that she'd never come back, because she was dead.

Paddy had struggled on for about three years with his small boy on the one hand and his PIRA occupations on the other, dragging Ryan from safe house to safe house and sometimes even taking him to secret and highly illegal meetings, where he would put him to sleep on some couch or canopy under a blanket, while he'd decide about the life or death of some political enemy or a Brit with his comrades in the very same room. Ryan did not always sleep but sometimes-with the curiosity of a young child-would listen and peep. Then afterwards he'd ask his father and never once Paddy had lied to him. He had always answered truthfully, entrusting his little boy with secrets that even many of the high-ranking PIRA comrades would not learn, before the deed was done. But always his father had told him to keep his tongue in check, to not tell, to never talk and to be extremely careful where he'd put his trust, because trust was a thickly thing and to much trust led only to death and destruction.

When Ryan was old enough for school his father brought him discreetly to France and entrusted him to the mother of his deceased wife, the Dowager Countess Kilwarden Clemence Wolfe, who had chosen to life in Brittany after her daughter's violent death. His grandmother – while a wonderful woman, spirited, educated and lively – had been probably even more of a fanatic then Paddy and she had continued to instil this tendency to secrecy, profound distrust and complete self control into Ryan. Clemence had taught Ryan to think, to be logic, to excel in whatever he did…to never show weakness, to never bend, to never give in and to never cry!

His French childhood with his grandmother Clemence Wolfe had been wonderful and carefree, but it had also been the time of his life where he had built his character and he could neither deny his heritage, nor his years with Clemence.

Only when Dr. Claire Charpentier had arrived like a tropical hurricane in their lives, Ryan's attitude had changed a little bit. He had seen his father's defensive fences fall like autumn leaves in front of Claire. He had seen his stubborn, stout and very aged Grandmother bend to the young, almost rowdy woman. Only after both Paddy and Clemence had been fully convinced, Ryan had given Claire her chance and his trust…completely. She was probably the only person in the world, he'd listen to and most certainly the only one, he'd show weakness with.

Her M.D. colleague from the Graches ER was most certainly competent, right and perfectly honest, but Ryan had met him for the first time two years ago and then only for a couple of hours during a diner. That was neither long enough nor good enough for even the slightest hint of familiarity…and most certainly not for trust.

He put on his shirt, fixed his tie and took his jacket from a hanger. Straightening his shoulders he went over to the M.D. and stretched out his hand. " Thank you for your time, Sir!" He said formally, but he meant it." I will try and follow your advice. I am sorry that I inconvenienced you on a Sunday!"


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 17 Revelations

*

Coral Gables was well-known for its outstanding restaurants. With more than 40 great places to eat, all within walking distance in the downtown area, the hardest decision was habitually which one to try first. There were places to meet for a casual outdoor lunch as well as elegant, top-rated restaurants for fine dining.

Horatio's secretive caller had chosen one of the more casual outdoor places, but it was still an excellent address and would have been –under normal circumstances –beyond his pay grade as a Lieutenant of the MDPD.

At Da Vittorio's at 264 Giralda Avenue it was possible to taste the best of Italian food and wine in a homely, yet very sophisticate dining atmosphere. The specific thing about the posh place managed by a famous chief from Rome was, that De Vittorio's would close down for the public, just in order to cater lavishly for a handful of special guests.

Horatio entered the restaurant and a discreet waitress showed him immediately into the terrace gardens. Also he had never seen Commandant Regine Marais before, he recognized the woman immediately in the midst of a lavish choice of Miami beauties and their retainers. She was in her early forties, compared to the Sunshine State female standard relatively small and had the coldest and most determined eyes he'd ever seen on one of the weaker sex. Her outfit was a walking understatement and had 'Made in France' written right over it…very expensive designer clothes that impressed not by their gaudiness and flash, but through an excellent cut and select materials. Even her wristwatch and black handbag were slaps into the face of Miami's 'belles' as mostly everything "Made in France".

Somehow, Commandant Regine Marais gave him the impression of being the female version of one of his CSIs – Wolfe.

She reacted immediately when he entered motioning with the glass of white wine in her hands that he may come over and join her.

"Lieutenant Caine!" She greeted him politely. "It is a true pleasure to meet you. Please be seated."

Horatio remembered conveniences, gave a slight bow, took her outstretched right hand and kissed it. Deep inside he was aquealing. This women seemed to be an absolute nightmare! She was a diplomat and posted to the US, she should know that this way of greeting a female was not very habitual in his place. He tried to think quickly and came to the decision that touching her hand with his lips would probably been considered a familiar gesture and not convenient. So he simply exhaled, careful not to make contact.

Commandant Marais attitude changed within the second and her icy eyes became warm and friendly.

"What a perfect gentleman, you are Lieutenant Caine! Your reputation seems to be an understatement. Please accept this diner as an invitation of the Republic and do not offend me and my superiors. " She gave the waitress a signal and the girl handed Horatio a menu without prices.

"Will you allow me to chose the wine, Lieutenant? " Regine asked. Normally a well-bred female would let the male make the choice, but she was here in the name of France and France would chose. It was inconceivable, even in the presence of an officer, whom she outranked largely, that this foreign national should have the impression to be treated in a degrading or impolite manner.

"Commander!" Caine smiled and bowed his red head. "Please feel free to make our choices. I will follow you."

It was a little bit strange to be confronted with such formality and extreme politeness, but Horatio assumed that the legal advisor of the Miami Branch of the French Consulate General in the United States of America did not dine with him, but with his nation and therefore formalities were required to the utmost. He was not used to this type of encounter, having only worked on his national territory and on US state level. He considered it more prudent and better for productive work, if he allowed the cold beauty taking the lead.

Commandant Regine Marais made her choice in fluent Italian, ordering aperitifs starters, main course, cheese, salad and wine. " I hope, Sir, you will approve. She gave him a polite, friendly and totally non-committing glance. Then she engaged in small talk with him; perfectly non-committing and at a level that would not even touch the outskirts of what Horatio considered private life.

He played along, hoping that this impromptu invitation to diner was not just a "Hello bloke! I have just been dumped into Miami by my Foreign Affairs Department and I am your official counterpart , should ever something happen to one of my countrymen on holidays in the Sunshine State!"

When they had finished starters and main course, Commandant Marais – by simple hand movement – made the waitress…wait and cheese was suspended in thin air. Suddenly the French diplomat became all business and her charming, non-committing attitude was gone.

It took her less then 10 minutes to explain to Horatio in precise words, what he'd been trying to figure out for the last 48 hours.

"You understand, Monsieur le Lieutenant, that it would not be to our mutual advantage, if this went up to the level of your Federal Bureau of Investigation ! » She concluded, giving Caine a hard look.

Horatio understood Commandant Marais perfectly well and if he'd been in her shoes he would have done exactly the same thing.

"You have a deal, Commander!" He replied, also he had not yet figured out how he'd bypass Rick Stetler and the IAB.

Regine Marais took a sip from her glass. " I can assure you, Sir, that you will not regret your decision. These people are extremely dangerous, no matter where they set up shop."

Another nonchalant motion of Regine Marais' hand finally released the cheese from its free flying position onto their table.

"So we have a deal?"

Horatio nodded. "We have a deal, Commander!"

Regine enjoyed her cheese, crispy, fresh white bread and red whine in silence, also Caine realised that her eyes were those of a hunter close to his prey and the kill. When only one last bit of the delicacies was left on her plate, she lifted her head gracefully and locked her eyes into his. Once more they were cold, uncompromising and tough as nails. Horatio asked himself, how brown eyes could suddenly turn cold. He'd need to wait for Wolfe reappearing in Miami. Perhaps his stray CSI had an answer. He was also able to play this trick.

"There is one point I almost forgot!" She said. " We would appreciate, if you could find a credible way with your authorities to explain the absence of one Wolfe…and we'd equally appreciate, if you'd simply ignore this fact and not ask him too many questions, when he returns."

Horatio smiled. "If I accept your conditions, Commander, would you tell me the whereabouts of my CSI?"

Regine returned his smile and gave him a wink of the eye that betrayed that there was something else underneath this highly formal diplomatic mask of hers. "Maybe!" She said softly, putting down her fork and knife and pulling an elegant silver fountain pen and a small notebook from her handbag. Se wrote down a phone number, ripped the sheet from her notebook and gave it to Horatio.

" There is seven hours between Miami and Paris…" She stated matter-of-factly. " Please call this number at your convenience and you may receive answers to a certain number of questions!" She sighed, drank some more wine and kept her own council for a short while. "Lieutenant, a word of the wise, if you permit: It may be inconvenient to try and dig too deeply into Ryan Wolfe's past. I can assure you that there is nothing you need to worry about and that your officer –while he may find it difficult to trust you – is perfectly loyal……" She played with a small, left-over crust of brad and avoided Horatio's eyes. " I should not tell you this and I implore you to keep this between you and I….."

Caine nodded in acquiescence and in a compassionate reflex put his large, warm hand over regine Marais slender, icy-cold long fingers. The woman flinched and took a breath….flinched and took a deep breath in the same way Ryan Wolfe did, when someone invaded his personal space without a formal invitation. But he persisted and the French Police Officer relaxed a little bit.

"You may have figured out, that your CSI has left the territory of the USA some 48 hours ago. He came to us for reasons, that I cannot tell you, but they are perfectly legal. He did not do this to slight you or to make trouble, but because he had no choice. Should you decide to call my superior, he may be willing to tell you more. All I can tell you, is that your officer brought us a member of the Ismailovskajya Bratstvo and allowed us to enter their IT network. He could not have given this evidence to you at the risk of his life and perhaps even that of your entire team."

Horatio took his hand away and gave his French counterpart some breathing space. " I am sure, he did the right thing, Commander." He replied gently. "Just tell me; what exactly happened to my man to take such desperate measures?"

Regine took the last piece of cheese with delicate fingers and nibbled at it:" Only you can answer this question, Horatio!" She said very softly, using for the first time the familiarity of his given name. "We are just trying to stick some broken pieces together, avoid unnecessary collateral damage and get rid of the French Branch of that Russian mob!"

**

Frank Tripp was rather satisfied with the results of his investigation. And while the research into the passenger with the Irish EC passport had brought no result – he was perfectly clean and registered with Homeland Security – the Belkin guy was in fact the brother of the mobster Horatio had shot early on Friday afternoon. It had been extremely tricky to find out more without attracting the attention of the MDPD and whatsoever other law enforcement entities in Miami-Dade, but Frank had managed.

He was drained, hungry and tremendously satisfied, when he returned to CSI Wolfe's rather lavish bunk….as always through the back doors.

"H.!" he shouted merrily. The house was empty and nobody would mind the noise. "Got him!"

It was close to midnight and Horatio's voice sounded a bit tired and subdued when he replied to trip. But the homicide detective made his way straight into the heart of their headquarters –CSI Wolfe's kitchen: "Bloke on the Frenchie plane's the brother of the mobster you offed, H:" he explained happily, zooming immediately to the freezer and rummaging through Ryan's provisions for something edible that needn't be cooked or prepared otherwise. He found some dried sausage that looked rather appetising.

"I know, Frank!" Horatio replied over his cup of herbal tea. He had still no idea, how the espresso device worked and while he could not understand that people would drink grass with hot water, the stuff was better then nothing, Wolfe's milk supply having been exhausted.

"There is no need to try and hunt down Ryan…." He explained.

Frank Tripp was cutting the sausage in small slices and preparing a nibbles plate for himself. Wolfe had unfortunately no beer in his house, but the wine Tripp had seen down in the cellars would do fine. All he needed now was bread and some salt for the tomatoes. He rummaged through a cupboard and found 'Salt' somewhere behind coffee filters and a small glass full of jelly fruits. This place of storage did not make any sense, considering the fact that Wolfe pretended to suffer from OCD, but to Tripp –divorced and living all on his own – there was a certain logic in the arrangement. The CSI rarely used salt and was not too fond of jelly fruits, so he put it out of reach and far away from more important things like tea bags, small change for the milk man and his set of spare car keys.

"The boy gave the slip to France, didn't he? " Frank replied flatly, settling down on a kitchen chair and tasting the dry sausage. That stuff was good. Already from the taste, Frank could say that it did not come from the supermarket but from one of the small Italian grocery stores between North Miami Beach and Hallandale. When he had time, he also did his shopping there and enjoyed the wonderful fresh stuff directly brought in from Italy.

Horatio nodded and sipped his hot grass water moodily. " While you where chasing after the names on the passenger list, I had a rather fancy and very strange diner at De Vittorio's!" He explained to Frank everything he'd learned from Commandant Regine Marais of the French Consulate General.

Tripp nibbled his food and listened. No wonder Ryan had ran off and asked for help, where it was willingly given. He had never ever understood how Horatio could tolerate the very off-hand behaviour of Calleigh and Eric, as if it was Wolfe's fault that he was not Tim Speedle. But Horatio's team was Horatio's team and he had no right to interfere with Horatio's personal management. He found it strange and unhealthy and often rather upsetting, but it was none of his business.

"So what are we going to do now, H.?"

Caine gave his watch a glace. "Call that number in France in about three hours, when it is Monday morning over there, listen to this Prefect Erwan de Kersausson, take the intel he is willing to give us on Sarnoff's mob and blow that organisation to pieces, if we can."

"Ok, H. This seems a good idea. How will you explain this sudden bounty of intel on Sarnoff to our superiors?"

"The French will do it, Frank. The will tell our bosses that they incidentally stumbled over the stuff during an enquiry of their own and believed it would be useful to us. The only thing we have to do is to cover up for Ryan in a credible manner. That's their condition…"

Tripp grinned. Never ever before he had heard Horatio use Wolfe's first name so often in a row. Habitually it was " this…. that…", while it had always been Calleigh and Eric and Tim. Perhaps suddenly H. had come to his senses and understood that Wolfe would simply never be Speedle, even if they's bully and jackass him to no ends. He was Ryan…take it or leave it.

"I believe, you accepted it, H."

"What else could I have done, Frank?" Caine replied moodily. "Compared to the bounty on the Russian mob they offer me, Wolfe's misdemeanour is peanuts….I'll handle it, as soon as he turns up again…." Almost as soon as he'd spoken the words, Caine realised what he had said. "Do not look at me like this, Frank! I do not mean Ryan any harm and you can believ me that I got the message, even without these French trying to lecture me on leadership and personal management.." He lifted both hands in defeat and gave Tripp a rueful look.

"Better you do, H." The sergeant replied. His stomach filled and a nice cuppa in front of him he felt sufficiently rewarded for a hard Sunday's work. "You do not mind, if I call it a day, go home and catch some sleep?"

***

Serge Poniatowski had been briefed in carefully on what they had found out about the Miami mobsters and their French colleagues. He was entirely convinced that he could play Tim Belkin better then the true Tim Belkin would ever be.

"So what is happening to my little Russian sibling right now?" He asked Delveaux, admiring the Russian mobsters diamond-studded Rolex and monogrammed Dupondt silver lighter.

The boss of the Organised Crime Unit chuckled. " I believe that he is taking his diner under the well-meaning eyes of his guardians, who will prevent him from doing something stupid with a plastic spoon and fork.

"Did he talk?"

"Not a word, Serge, not a single word….but we do not really need him. The colleague who brought him to as –alive and kicking- is out of hospital and according to JP's words sufficiently annoyed with our Russian buddy to give you a full length briefing together with loads of information he has on the Miami bunch." He held out the BlackBerry to Poniatowski." You have a tracer inside and the little star works as a panic button should things turn bad. As soon as you are out in the street I call the colleagues at Levallois-peret and they remove their veil from the POA, so that over in Miami they can see that you are going to Rossinski's."

"Where am I now, officially?"

"Dining at the 'Etoile Concorde Hotel', Serge." He motioned his colleague, who strapped to Rolex to his wrist and pocketed the lighter out of the premises and they went together to his car.

When they arrived 45 minutes later at Saint-Nom-la-Breteche, the hostess shot the police officers a rather nasty glance, while the host and his son received them with great enthusiasm.

Delveaux was slightly surprised to see Ryan Wolfe so nicely recovered after such a short rest.

His CSI colleague from Miami, also obviously still sore and very stiff, had brilliant, lively eyes and a rather healthy colour to his face….irrespective a rather impressive and colourful haematom under his jaw. Nothing compared to the ashen face he'd first seen inside the Roissy-CDG Metro!

Delveaux first greeted Madame le Professeur, trying to play nice boy and handing her a sinfully expensive box of chocolates, he'd picked up in a rush at Fauchon's on Place Madeleine, who was open on Sundays. When Claire thanked him with a look that would have frozen over the equator in no time, he made a hurried strategic retreat towards a garden table that had been obviously set for their purpose of discussing business with Ryan and his infamous father. Serge Poniatowski, while a brave man and full of courage followed him in a nick, avoiding the Medusa's killer eyes. Only Moulin, who was somehow like family resisted slightly longer, took her harsh admonitions with grace and walked over at a leisurely pace, while Padraig O'Briain and his son still tried to appease the boss.

Ten minutes later she literally threw drinks and glasses on the table and left, head held high in the air and murmuring something about male brains that were about the size of a chickens.

"Ouff!" Padraig O'Briain gave a deep sigh, when Claire was finally out of sight. "Believe me, boys! She'll make me pay for this…" He gave his son a roguish smile. " I cannot guarantee, that she'll not do something foolish that will spoil the fun!"

"We shall deal with it, if it happens, Papa!" Ryan replied in kind. Then he turned his attention to Delveaux, Moulin and Poniatowski. " So what did you get from the BlackBerry, guys?"

"A world of wonders!" Moulin was still slightly shocked that a criminal organisation could entrust so much to such a fragile device as a computer. He let Delveaux explain in detail, what the cute little IT-wiz had done to Sarnoff's network and what their analysts had found on the printout. Then he told Wolfe and his father about the illegal export of the SAGEM security systems and that they had enough to book Alexandr Rossinski for about 5 years into the Fresnes Detention Facilities.

"So, why do you want to take the risk and send Poniatowski inside!" Padraig O'Briain enquired reasonably. From his point of view, with what the French had in hands, there was absolutely no need to risk the live of a good man.

Delveaux poured himself some of the cidre, that Claire had grudgingly offered and started to explain.

Ryan understood perfectly. "No problem. I will tell you, everything I know, Serge!" He addressed the undercover officer.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 18 A Matter of Family**

*

Frank Tripp sat on his favourite chair in front of the TV set. He had turned the sound off and ignored the show on the screen. His cell phone lay on a small glass table in front of him. He had been fixing it for the last 15 minutes.

"So you believe, you know where the kid is, H.?" He spoke softly to himself, nursing his second glass of wine of the evening. " I'd rather know for certain and speak to him, just to make sure, he's right…that's what I'd do, if he were one of my own…."

He opened the two upper buttons of his flowery cotton shirt. He loved these shirts for fishing. Kept a man cool in the blazing Florida sun and put a touch of colour into Sunday pastimes. He thought for a little while, then picked up his cell phone and dialled the International White Pages. It was a little bit foolish. There were probably tons of people with the names Wolfe and/or O'Briain in the Paris region. Half the Irish of the World were called O'Brian or O'Briain, and the first names Padraig and Ryan were as common as sable on a Miami beach…but he wanted to try.

A polite operator answered dutifully. "Do you have the exact address in Paris, Sir?" She enquired.

Frank replied in the negative, but asked her to extend her research to the greater Paris region. After some minutes she chirruped like a little song bird: I do have a Dr. Padraig O'Briain at Saint Nom la Breteche and a Patrick O'Briain in the XVI. Arrondisement. All the others spell their name as O'Brian. Which one of the remainder is yours, Sir?"

'Listen, give me both numbers. It may be either. We lost touch couple of years ago."

As you please!" The operator replied, gave Frank both numbers, reminded him that the prefix for France was 0033 and hung up.

Tripp stared at the sheet of paper in front of him.

That was completely, utterly stupid! Call someone completely unknown on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, ask him, if incidentally he had a relative called Ryan Wolfe who worked for the MDPD and enquire, if that relative might perhaps be around?

That was a fool's game and would probably make him the laughing stock of the people on the other side of the line, but after 26 years of service, a broken marriage and three kids who would not talk to him any longer, he had nothing to loose.

The sergeant took his cell, composed the first number at Saint Nom La Breteche and listened to a melodious, female voice. She spoke French…..Frank was so perplex, that he wanted to close his cell immediately shut, but then the professional reflexes kicked in 'Do you speak English?' He asked in his best ' I am at your service,M'am-voice.

The lady on the other side of the Atlantic replied in the affirmative. "I do, Sir? Whom do you want to speak to?"

Tripp gave the passenger list printout from AF 95 a glance. " May I speak to Mr. Ryan-Padraig Wolfe-O'Briain, please? Habitually he calls himself just Ryan Wolfe!"

" And whom shall I announce?" She asked politely and a little bit stiffly. Frank could literally see a pair of surprised, brown eyes, in a terribly French living room, full of old-fashioned stuff that would immediately explode if you put it on an oven. He suddenly felt triumph rising in his chest.

"I am a friend of his from Miami." The homicide detective explained to the lady on the other end. "My name is Frank Tripp! I work with him ."

"Just a second, !" Le Professeur Claire Charpentier replied in impeccable English with only the slightest twitch of an accent and a tinge of annoyance.' I shall see what I can do for you. Hang on."

Frank hung on, also his watch told him that he might be in for a long wait and that somehow this phone call might be too little too late. But he was not in a mood to give up on Ryan. After all that he'd seen and all that Horatio had told him, he felt that he simply had to do it…sit and wait until the kid was willing to come to the phone and talk to him.

He was surprised, when a very familiar voice drifted from far away into his ear. And while the voice was familiar, it was harder then usual, uncompromising and rather cold. The voice on the other side of the Atlantic was not very happy to hear him. So much was clear to Sergeant Frank Tripp. But this was no reason to give up and bend.

" How are you, son?" He asked Ryan gently.

"Frank,…!" The far-away voice replied coolly, "…there is no need to ask. Did H. put the puzzle together and send you with pearls and laces as a peace offering?"

Tripp gave a deep sigh, put his feet comfortably on the telly table and leaned back in his comfy chair. He had the curious feeling that in a months he'd receive a nasty call from Stettler to explain about his sky-rocket phone bill. He'd cope with Stetler, when time would come. "Son, this has nothing to do with H. He does not even know that I puzzled it all together. Now, you tell me, if you are all right."

Ryan Wolfe sank on the small love seat by his parents phone. He felt suddenly drained and worn. He had taken lots of pains to not leave any traces behind, even travelling with a passport nobody knew he owned.

He had –at least on paper- double nationality and Irland was one of the few countries in Europe that would not automatically report back to the Americans, as soon as they were made aware of the fact. He supposed that Frank might have gone through passengers lists of airplanes out of MIA and stumbled over a name that looked familiar, if not exactly the same.

The old copper then had simply tested his luck at the risk of making a fool of himself and stumbling over some innocent Irishman who had no clue but incidentally lived in Paris and was called Wolfe or O'Briain, like about 80 percent of the Irish.

"I am ok, Frank! But please, leave me alone for a while. Will you? You were always better then the others and at least respectful of my privacy."

"This may be the very reason, Ryan, why I call you in the dead of the night, from my home and with nobody around. Does this sound reasonable to you?"

"It does Frank. But nonetheless, I am really not in a mood to discuss certain things…."

"Like a hit order from the Russian Mob, for example?" Tripp replied.

His voice was dropping with sarcasm. He would have slapped the boy around his head if he'd been at arms reach….several times and very hard, in order to make his brains work once again.

Tripp had always been rather lucid when it came to Wolfe: The kid was an excellent cop. He was born to be a police officer and he was probably one of the best CSIs the sergeant had ever met in 27 years on duty.

But Ryan was also stubborn, proud, arrogant, reclusive and tremendously untrusting. He gave Frank on occasions the impression of that famous dog who'd had one beating to much from his master, who'd nonetheless still obey but was no longer capable to show either fear or joy at the sight of the owner.

Already when they had bullied him ruthlessly because he had a thing with that pretty journalist Erica Sykes, Frank had found the team's reactions completely exaggerated: Wolfe was a nice, young bloke; good-looking, well-bred, polite etcetera. It was normal, that some pretty female about his age would fall for him at one moment in time and Sikes had neither been on MDPD payroll nor related to their direct working environment, so no harm done….even if the chick had been a bit ruthless with her boyfriend and Ryan a bit to soft and forgiving with his chick.

But Frank understood how difficult it was for a bloke to put his foot down hard with a chick, when he was sleeping with her. H. himself had all gone soft and puppy-eyed over Marisol Delko, notwithstanding the fact that they picked her with Marihuana….and then he had not even bedded Delko's sister.

The same went for Calleigh and Eric, when they skilfully covered up for each other, because there was more to'em then working relation. And he wanted not even to think about Julia, that tricky little bitch, who managed to make Horatio turn in circles and do tremendously stupid and very dangerous things. Wolfe on the contrary had kept job and bed separated….

"Indeed Frank!" Ryan replied reasonably. "But I manage. Do not worry. Everything will be fine. Just leave me alone for a while and please….keep this to yourself."

Tripp shook his head. So the kid was actually trying to fix his problem with the Russian mob all on his own and without getting them involved. He could always try…" Ryan, if you were so keen to handle that all on your own…" He enquired and suddenly there was steel in his voice, " …why did you call H. and lied to him, that you'd be on sick leave for a fortnight?"

"I never did, Frank!" The younger man answered. It was obvious, that he was very much surprised by Tripp's accusation." I did not even take the cell…..I am not so thick, to wander around with a phone that has an MDPD tracker on it. I never ever told Horatio whatsoever…"

Tripp put his feet down, hunched and gasped audibly." We were at your place, son and believe me, after we found that message on your wall, we turned it upside down…no cell and no gun….I thought you might have taken the stuff with you."

"I took neither….not very discreet to try and board an international flight with your hardware, even if you can show the plate that goes with it. So you found the whole gory mess, Sarnoff's people left behind?" He was slightly surprised that Caine had even taken the pains to come and have a look. He had not expected this from his boss.

When he'd gotten himself nailed a couple of years ago, H. had not taken the pains to come and see him at the hospital. So why should he now suddenly develop a sense of responsibility or feeling of compassion just because he had spend 12 nightly hours with some brute from Sarnoff's mob?

Considering that H. had not cared when he had asked Ryan to help him stage his death, Wolfe was perfectly aware of the fact that if it had gone wrong, it would have been his career that was over. Not Horatio's. He knew Horatio had chosen him because he didn't want to damage either Eric or Calleigh. H. had not cared if he'd damage Ryan, so why would he suddenly start to care now?

Frank detected bitterness in the younger man's voice.

He could not blame Wolfe: Ryan had many a reason to be bitter. Friday had just been another of these days, when Ryan had found out once again that the team –Horatio in the frontline- just saw him as kind of talking and walking crime analysis machine that had to function, and if the machine was bugged, they would just turn away and complain. They'd never ever try and find out why the "machine" bugged.

He had been feeling sorry for the young CSI for along time, having quickly understood that since H. never stood up for him, Calleigh and Eric joyfully used him as their scapegoat.

With Delko Frank was not surprised at all. It had been clear from the beginning that he resented Ryan with every fibre of his being and that he hated him for not being his buddy Speedle.

From Calleigh Frank had expected somewhat better at first, but basically she had never really cared. But Miss Dusquene had neither cared for either Hagen or Berkley or Eliott , although these three men had been her lovers. It was, as if she could not really care about others, being too absorbed in her own world and taking the males around her either as career enhancers –Horatio- or as cosy pillows –Hagen, Eliott, Berkley and now Delko. And when the pillow started to smell, she threw it into the bin, getting herself a new, clean one.

"Listen, there was no mess, Ryan. Someone has cleaned your place as if it has been a murder scene….couldn't even smell those nice flowers in your garden….only bleach and detergents. They'd taken care of that wall too, but as you know…..blood always sticks, even if you cannot see it any longer! H. found it through Luminol."

Suddenly, while he spoke these words, many thinks began to make sense for Sergeant Frank Tripp: The Russians had intentionally put up a show at Ryan's place –he could only imagine what the young man must have found there when coming home after his extremely stressful night and day – in order to separate one of their kind from the pack. And very cleverly they'd chosen the one, who would not be missed immediately.

The hit on Wolfe's head was more then serious. Sarnoff really wanted that kid down!

And the cleaning team or whoever had been so liberal with bleach and detergent had found his gun and cell, perhaps even his plate. They were planning very bad mischief. He decided to tell Wolfe everything he'd learned from Horatio and impress upon the kid to stay where he was…..as far away from Miami, as possible.

Ryan was slightly surprised that his French friends had acted with such speed and determination: Within 24 hours Erwan de Kersausson had not only solved whatever problems he might have had with H. for being absent without leave and authorisation. They had also cracked down Sarnoff's IT system and were handing their findings to the MDPD like Christmas cookies.

He could not help, but smiled. The Americans always enjoyed thinking, that the French were lazy, lascivious, food-and fashion crazy and not very efficient! How wrong they were.

The French were habitually very determined, entirely ruthless and had a handful of gadgets even the NSA could only dream of. Just due to the fact, that they'd not sell their stuff to XYZ on the world market, because more often then not the US put economic and political pressure on potential clients to buy American, this did not mean that the other guys were dunce heads.

And just because the French did not consider it wise to send troops onto the Iraqi killing fields, because this was contrary to their economic and political interests in the Middle East, it did not mean that they were cowards or cissies.

"Thank you, Frank!" The young CSI replied slightly more cheerful.

"If you permit, Ryan, I will keep you discreetly posted on what's going on." Tripp offered straightforward. "I suppose, I can catch you at this number?"

**

O'Briain had spend almost two hours detailing for Poniatowski how the Ismaiylovskajya worked inside and what structures of command this branch of the Russian mafia had.

His son had already explained the entire Miami business, starting with a fraud on boat slids including ruthless murder, the tampered horse races, the contents of Ivan Sarnoff's little black book and the names and positions of his known associates including Gregor Kasparov, who was believed to be Sarnoff's second in command, Jacob Jarovsky, who seemed to be the manager of their illegal arms trade and one Victor Marenko who had taken over the Aegean Fight Club, while Ivan was in prison.

From the downloads from the mob IT network, they had found out that concerning Kasparov they had been wrong. He was indeed Number 3 behind a guy –Vladimir Nevzorov – who had not yet attracted police attention and was only under some light surveillance, because he owned a famous Miami restaurant that was a hang out of the rich, the famous and the rogues.

Poniatowski had been very demanding concerning everything in which Ryan had been directly involved, since he had to pretend credibly with Rossinski, that he needed his help to finish Sarnoff's hit order on the police officer.

They had agreed, that Poniatowski would explore and document how far Rossinski would push this help. Then they'd stage at a convenient moment and if necessary Ryan's death at the fake-Belkin's hand and fake-Belkin's own demise in a shootout with Delveaux's Organised Crime Unit.

This stage management would allow the French to keep the real Belkin in their custody. Moulin and Delveaux knew, that Erwan de Kersausson was already working on a possibility to encourage the real Belkin to turn his coat. All would depend on the level at which the mobster was amenable and receptive to the things they could offer him.

He was not of high rank and had not committed a crime on French territory, but he was the first of the Ismaylovskajya, they'd caught alive. Everything was possible; from a new life, a new identity and immunity in exchange for information to becoming their mole inside the organisation in exchange for money, new face and new life when he'd draw out. Should Belkin accept such a deal, it would mean that Ryan had also to die a fake death but then to keep up the true Belkin's credibility.

Delveaux and Moulin knew, that if this hypothesis should become reality, they'd ask a lot of their friend: His one-way ticket from Miami would be also his final flight ticket from Miami. A man who was officially dead could not return to his former job and life. In reality it would simply mean that the Ryan Wolfe of US passport and fake birth certificate from Boston would cease to exist, while the actual Ryan-Padraig Wolfe-O'Briain with place of birth Dublin, Republic of Irland would not even need to eliminate one part of his double name from his EC Passport.

They had been talking about this, just before Claire had called Ryan to the phone.

"I have a strange feeling,.." Jean-Paul Moulin told Delveaux and Paddy O'Briain, "…that Ryan would not mind much! Already when he's been over for Christmas, something was wrong and it had nothing to do with that Russian mob."

Paddy nodded. He had also felt, that his son had come over for the season with a heavy heart and he had seen a haunted look in the young man's eyes that he had not liked a lot.

Some years earlier, when Ryan had gotten himself that job at the MDPD CrimeLab he'd been enthusiastic and readily told them during visits about his life in Miami. But then something had happened and his son had become less loquascious, reducing information exchange mainly to the scientific side of his profession, which very much interested Claire, who was as a matter of fact also something of a CSI, even if it was hard to compare the system of French scientific police and institutions with the US system.

This first level of silence had been obviously related to his break-up with his girl friend Erica Sikes, a journalist with a Miami TV station.

This break-up had been a huge surprise for Claire and Paddy, because their relationship had almost evolved to a point, where Ryan planned to bring Erica to France so she might meet his family. It had been indeed so serious, that Paddy and Claire had been informed that he intended to propose to the girl as soon as she'd met the family.

From Erica's side, this family meeting thing had already been done and it had appeared to Paddy and Claire, that the girl's relatives approved of their son.

Then suddenly everything went to pieces: Ryan would not explain why and they had never met the girl…nor any other female creature that might have come closer to Ryan then arms length!

The first veil of silence had fallen and ever since he seemed to carefully avoid the other sex. All he had been willing to tell, was that there existed a certain cultural incompatibility between him and a majority of available females in Miami and that whatsoever closer and more serious relationship with any of these females would only lead – at one moment in time- to misunderstandings and heartache.

Over time he had become even more tight lipped about his job and life in the States and Claire had had the impression that after each visit he paid to them in France, he departed with an ever heavier heart, as if he had to force himself to step onboard the flight back to Miami. And last Christmas it had been particularly visible, so obvious that even Jean-Paul brought the subject onto the table.

"Did he tell you anything, JP?" Paddy asked. Habitually he was not nosy and did not mess around in Ryan's business. His son was a grown man and had the right to keep his own counsel.

But the situation actually at hand was somewhat special and some further knowledge might be useful and help them all together.

"He was not very explicit, Paddy. Ryan is not a complainer! They seem to have problems in personal management and the working climate is degrading. He's told me a bit about a freak show of his boss and the rather reckless manner in which the guy had him involved in that 'fake death', notwithstanding the fact that if things would have turned badly, Ryan's head would have been immediately on the block….with some pretty sharp axe right to his neck. No written statement, no written orders, nothing from the boss to cover his subordinate in case of problems…no coordination with his own superiors…It did not sound messy but right out dangerous."

"Telling Paddy stories about my wonderful boss, JP?"

Ryan had returned to the garden without the others realising. He was still trying to make up his mind about that strange phone call from Frank Tripp, but could not convince himself that the old copper was trying tricks on him or had even consulted with H. before ringing him up at this place.

Tripp had told him, that he'd simply called the 'International White Pages' operator and asked for the phone numbers of all people in and around Paris who went by the name O'Briain. He had really intended to phone up 50 people should need arrive, and only stumbled over him at first call, by sheer fools luck!

A little voice deep inside told him, that he could trust Frank. Anyhow they'd find out soon enough.

In a couple of hours H. would either call or not call the Paris Police Prefect Erwan de Kersausson, then he'd know exactly what was going to happen and which role he would play. He had already made up his mind to follow de Kersausson, JP and Delveaux on the Belkin thing. Should it prove necessary to kill off his American self, he would not cry and mourn over this part of his life.

They had started to discuss at about 16 hours on Sunday afternoon He realised that it was now two o'clock on Monday morning.

Paddy had explained to them, that there were only two possibilities with the Russian mob, when you had them on your heels and they wanted your life: Either you'd die or you'd see to it, that the man who placed the hit on you died!

Habitually – inside the 'Bratstvo' if a stag managed to kill the hunter his problems were over and he had his life back. That were the rules of the game between the Russians themselves.

For an outsider the hunt was only over if he had the power and the influence to kill the inside man who wanted him dead.

So for Ryan, a fake demise might actually be not the worst solution. By fake-Belkin Poniatowski's hand, this would allow him a relative freedom of movement against perhaps even Sarnoff himself, if they reacted quickly and played it tight.

By the hands of the true Belkin, who'd be willing to return into Sarnoff's mob as a mole and subvert their activities from inside, the sacrifice would be worth the price and somehow he no longer minded the job with MDPD CrimeLab too much.

Green pastures existed in France too! They had seven excellent crime labs in the country, their scientific level probably even much higher then that of their Miami lab. He could perhaps finish his PhD in Genetics, a project close to his heart and which he had laid a bit on ice in order to work for the police. He was looking at his father and his two friends.

"And if we'd call it a day, guys! That Belkin man cannot run away and calling Mr. Alexandr Rossinski at 2 o'clock in the morning might be considered bad education, even by the standards of the Russian Mob."

He was tired. His body was still very much aching. The jet lag finally kicked in and somehow he did not want to take a decision right now. He wanted to mull things over. Wait and see.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 19 Wise Man's Words

*

Ramona could not believe it. Tears were welling up in her eyes and she had to bit her lip. She had her arms around the shoulders of Rodrigo and Pedro her two young brothers. The boys stood there transfixed and completely silent and stared at the two rooms that would soon be their bedrooms….their bedrooms: They could not believe it, too!

Aljosha Danilenko smiled. It was a honest and carefree smile. She liked it and Ivan had been formal: She was to have it. Not just rented out for her, but Sarnoff had ordered him to buy the flat from his own, personal money. Ivan –on occasions-was a man of rapid decisions and occasionally these decisions did not come from careful evaluation of a situation but straight from his guts. Danilenko shook his head. There were worse investments then 200 square meters, a garden and two garages in South Miami's Homestead Quarter. It was a part of Miami, where you could still find agriculture, fruit and veggie growers, young middle class families with small children who cared for a safe and healthy environment and coppers like Caine, who could not afford better, but wanted to life in a nice and peaceful place.

Ivan had been formal: he did not want his name connected to anything Ramona…he wanted her safe and well protected…he wanted this to look, as if Babushka Marja Fedorovna – the Snow-White of the Bratstvo- had just seen to the comfort and well-being of her beloved governess. They had excellent lawyers on the mob's payroll who'd fix that deal.

"Peter,.." He told the bear of a man, who stood a little away from them, careful to employ his angliscised name and speak English to him "You may wish to take Pedro and Rodrigo out for some ice cream, while we conclude with Mr. Franklin !"

Piotr the body guard beamed and bowed his head. Then he took the two boys hands and led them away. They were nice children and he loved nice children. One day, he would have boys of his own with a good woman like Ramona, teaching them to hunt, to fish and to take care of themselves and spoiling them rotten. Nothing to do with his own, bleak and tough Moscow childhood in a broken country without any law.

The boys chattered happily with the hulk, asking him, if he'd come and see their new rooms, telling him what they'd do in the gardens and that he needed to help them building a tree house.

Ramona was slowly recovering from her shook. , the owner of the house decided that this and sending off the children was an excellent sign. With the economy crisis that also struck hard real estate owners like him, a buyer, who would pay cash was God's gift. And as far as he could understand, this pretty young mother of two who had come with a very respectable looking business man, perhaps some kind of financial counsellor, not only could afford his house, but had the cash to pay for it. Heavens, the chick was pretty! Already the necklace around her neck was worth at least 5 grands and the small ear studs on her beautifully shaped ears where another 2 grands. The car in front, while not flashy, was nice, new and solid. And they'd come with a driver. Both boys well bred, clean and polite….he could hope for nothing better as a buyer. The neighbours would certainly take quickly to her little family.

Danilenko ignored Franklin and took Ramona's arm:" So you like it, Dear? It feels right?"

She beamed at him and nodded. "It is perfect, I do not know…"

Alexej chuckled and lifted his hand. "If it is perfect, than there is no need to talk. It's yours. I will see to the legal business and make sure that you and the boys move in as soon as possible." He gave her his most charming smile."Now off you go and find the boys and Peter. I will finalise everything and then find you."

She nodded, pecked a kiss on his check and went of after Rodrigo, Pedro and Piotr. She could hardly believ what was happening to her, also Mr. Alex had explained everything. They had had a very long discussion that afternoon at Marja Feodorovna's house. Mr. Alex had told her, that Mr. Ivan was a shy man who had had a very difficult and hard life and was a bit awkward, when it came to expressing his feelings. He had told her, that Mr. Ivan was very fond of her –very fond and that this flat was just peanuts for him….but to know, that she owned it simply made him feel much better. So he just wanted her and the little ones to be fine until he'd come back. Being at BunkerHill was just bad enough and –having seen were Ramona lived with Pedro and Rodrigo –felt even worse. He was upset to know, that every day she returned to a place where bad things could happen to her, while he was locked away and could not help.

Ramona had finally given in. It was true that her neighbourhood was a nightmare. It was true that she blessed Piotr and his colleagues, when they drew her home from Marja Feodorowna's, giving those rascals from the Latino gangs in her place hard looks and telling them to stay away from Ramona and the boys. But Piotr and his colleagues did not stand guard over the entry of Pedro's and Rodrigo's prep school. They were not always around and her little brothers often told her how frightened they were, when another shoot out between the gangs would leave another bloodied body on the street. This neighbourhood was different. It was closer to Marja Feodorovna's place, better, calmer and with no problems of THAT kind. People here were peaceful and lived peaceful lives. They'd enjoy it.

"So we have a deal !" Danilenko replied in excellent English.

"We have…" The owner smiled. " Miss Sanchez can move in immediately if she wants. You see: The place is pristine. There is nothing to do. Just put in the furniture, sign up the boys at school and enjoy!"

The Russian mobster nodded. He liked the place too. Lieutenant Horatio Caine obviously had a pretty good taste. He had seen the convenient shopping mall close bye, but it was not a sore onto the eye. He had seen the nice and modern medical facilities. The prep school was beautiful; brand new and appealing to children. The bus stop right in front of a gate with a security guy and electronic portico to check for mean stuff like knifes or guns. There was a park nearby, the beach hardly 30 minutes on foot away and the centre of 'Homestead' harboured many nice little shops and restaurants.

"We'll meet tomorrow at 8h30 precisly at Websters&Brooks downtown, ." Danilenko grinned. "I give you cash, you give me the keys right now. I want to see my friend move in immediately."

Franklin slapped the proffered hand. "You have a deal, !"

**

Tim Belkin was not a happy man!

His world had been reduced to 9 square meters. He could not even have a pee without watchful eyes on him.

He had no shoe laces, no bed sheets, no paper, no pencil…even his food was served together with a plastic spoon on a unbreakable plastic plate for toddlers. His drinks came in baby cups…no sharp edges, nothing….and always those eyes....

The guard in front of his holding cell changed every hour, but one thing did not change: The eyes of the guard were upon him 24/24 and the watchful creatures would neither move nor speak to him, while on shift. They just sat and stared.

Nobody had been rude with him. Quite the contrary! Nobody had been violent or abasing. They called him Sir, would change the telly channel as soon as he asked, brought him edibles and drinkables at demand and never invaded his personal space. They were perfect. Only he was tremendously upset: Tim felt like a rat in a cage!

"Hey, buddy!" He called out to his guard. " Where's my lawyer! What is going on! I've done no wrong!"

The French robot just stared at him unblinking. Then he smiled. Tim was mightily pissed.

"Get me a beer!" He shouted.

The robot nodded, whispered into his walkie-talkie and made a beer appear within seconds right inside a toddler's plastic cup. Robot passed it through the bars of the holding cell and smiled. His shift was over and another French robot entered the premises. It was female, this time. It smiled!

Belkin gulped his toddler's cup, realized that once again they'd given him alcohol-free and sank depressed upon his plastic covered mattress. He really wanted to strike out, hurl at these bullshitters and give them a piece of his mind…..but whenever he did, all they'd do was…..smile at him.

He had no idea, how long he'd been in his rat cage: One hour, one day, one months, one year….how should he know; light was always dim, but it never went off.

He felt completely disoriented and weak. The only visual stimulation would come from the telly set….but they had turned off the sound….he could watch, but would not hear human voices. It was sheer torment. He'd never been subject to more cruel treatment, not even during special forces training with the Russian Army a lifetime ago.

The French police officer who was observing Belkin on a computer screen smiled. There was no need to rough up a man to break him or inflict bodily harm to make him squeal and bend. It was sufficient to deprive a prisoner for a relatively short time span of all external stimuli and he'd go to pieces.

No national law, no international convention obliged them to have small talk with that rogue…… Some more hours all alone in this pristine, warm, comfortable cell surrounded by faceless and voiceless kindly shadows and that Russian bloke would be ripe for harvesting. He was already at the brink of a nervous breakdown! He did not understand what was happening to him….before the end of the day, he'd be completely distressed….

The officer lifted up the phone and dialled an internal shortcut. "He's surprisingly weak, Sir!" He explained, as soon as they were on line.

"He expected pain…" The voice on the other end of the line replied." And we did not give him, what he's expected and what he'd been able to cope with. Change his guard, send in an elderly officer, one whom you'd give your house keys and whom you'd have look after the children….cup of coffee, some chocolate…tell the man to talk with Belkin…"

The officer chuckled. "You are a cruel man, Sir!" He replied. "Hopefully, I will never ever be in trouble with you!"

"Hopefully not, my friend…" The voice said cheerfully. "Call me immediately, when our man is falling apart…"

***

Ryan Wolfe had found his cosy bed upstairs at Claire's and Paddy's.

He loved this place. Saint Nom la Breteche was the most beautiful living area on the outskirts of Greater Paris and Claire's house was situated in the most ancient and most beautiful part of that place.

Once upon a time, the park had been private and belonged to the Chateau de la Breteche, the Breteche Castle. But in the 1920ies the owners had been in financial trouble and had been obliged to sell off the dependencies.

Claire's grand-parents – the butcher and the village groceries maid – had immediately jumped on the opportunity. Even when times were hard, people had to eat – and had bought the place.

Ninety years of good money and good care had done wonders to the former barn and it was now the prettiest and largest private property on the 20 hectares of the Chateau's Park.

As it was his habit, he sat on the window sill and looked at the pond with its lavish sea roses in cream, pink and red. He loved the pond, even went swimming in it also Claire always chided him, that the water was not tidy because of the ducks and water chicken. But Ryan had never cared.

Miami had wonderful beaches and water of the colour of blue diamonds, but it was impossible to simply swim there without meeting sharks or even worse –madmen on speedboats, water scooters or other stuff. And he hated swimming pools. There was something unnatural about a swimming pool –chlorine and chemistry!

With Erica they had occasionally gone down to Ball Harbour Island, but he could not really enjoy a place where everything was about fashion and hardly anything about the ocean. Well, there had only been 10 shark attacks in Dade County, with the last fatality happening back in 1961, but Miami had a world reputation for nasty jelly fish and sting rays and if there was one thing in the world Ryan Wolfe hated even more the the idea of sharks, it were jellyfish!

As to his OCD, this might perhaps be single proof, he might not have been lying to H. some five years ago; Calleigh got crack-a-nuts over spiders! Valera could not leave a room without cleaning it. BoaVista seemed to have an obsession with showers and being proper herself and Delko....well Delko was obsessed with sex....

Ryan was not different from his colleagues. He too had certain obsessions: He would iron his shirts with amidone, could not cope with the death rising from their stretchers in the MDPD morgue and he hated jellyfish. And this was the one thing he loved about Claire's pond –although the water was habitually at a temperature that would even discourage a whale from the South Pole: There were absolutely no jellyfish inside....not even small ones!

Ryan shuddered when he thought of his childhood, their carefree adventures on the beach in front of JPs place at Crozon and the huge, glibbery, translucent and very cold thingy with tentacles that JP had dropped on his naked belly, while he had been drowsing in the sun…exactly the day after TF 1 had had the first part of 'Alien' starring Segourney Weaver on the telly screen.

They had been watching the program at JPs, because Clemence would not allow him to watch television at home….their whole bunch: JP, five years Ryan's senior, Maewyn, the boss of their little band of brothers, JP's sweetheart and the only one of age, Pierre-Louis, who was now a French Navy officer on the Jean-d'Arc, Louise, who had become an ophtalmologist at Brest –she had seen Ryan after he had gotten the blasted nail into his eye and saved his vision – Olivier, who had been working for Elf-Aquitaine as a security manager and was now somewhere down the Amazon River on three-master La Boudeuse to study climatic changes, Frankkie who was still a fisherman in Brittany and him, the baby of the bunch.

They had always kept in touch and close.

Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to die by the hands of whatsoever Belkin and leave Miami and the US behind. He loved France, loved his friends and loved his family!

He had inherited Clemence's villa at Morgat on the Crozon peninsula, also Paddy and Claire lived in there most of the time. He had enough money to do what he liked best and Brest –at 25 minutes from the peninsula and the beautiful white house on the cliffs – had the second crime lab of France, which was run by Claire's old buddy Professeur Daniel Clarys, an M.D and paleo-antrophologist of European repute.

Clarys would be happy to have him, even without Claire giving him the push up. Clarys had been already external examiner on Ryan's Master in Biochemistry.

The young CSI took a huge towel from a cupboard in his chamber and silently trotted down the staircase, through the house and back into the gardens. Claire and Paddy were asleep; Paddy happy to be allowed to mess with exciting stuff once again, Claire mightily pissed with the two males of the O'Briain family.

He was content not to be in the midst between these two very strong characters. It did not take a lot of imagination to divine what piece of mind Claire would have given his father as soon as JP, Delveaux and Serge Poniatowski had departed and him gone up to his room.

He chuckled evilly. Paddy could take it once in a while! His father was a wonderful man and he loved him dearly, but at 60 years of age he was also the most irresponsible, harebrained and carefree creature Ryan had ever met in his lifetime.

He closed the terrace door and enjoyed the wonderful summer night: It was warm, but not hot as in Miami and the humidity was decent. Over his head, stars were sparkling in the skies, untainted by the lights of Paris. Crickets were chirruping and the water chicken gave an annoyed 'pluck-pluck' when the potentially unfriendly and highly annoying two-legged bio-entity approached its territory.

Ryan dropped of his ample jeans shirt and light cotton trousers. Fortunately he and Paddy were about the same size and he'd fit into his father's stuff or else he would have come to the pond in Hugo Boss and blood-soaked Forzieri.

Occasionally he would regret that he could no longer share moments like this with Erica...but not tonight. He was happy to be on his own!

Part of himself still loved Erica and her many good sides, but another part told him, that the career management of a Miami-born 'Belle' in the show bizz would never ever agree with the family values and code of conduct of a French-bred Irishman. And it was impossible to built a longterm relationship on good sex and good fun only!

Ryan was fully aware of his shortcomings: he had spend 1/3 of his life in the US, but he had been born and bred in Europe. While he had good brains and an above-average IQ, he was simply not capable to admit that someone who pretended he'd love you, would put career in front of personal feelings and use someone else's personal feelings to simply further a professional career.

He was perhaps too petty-minded to get this greater picture….he'd never ever imagined to further his career at the expenses of Erica: Either you loved or you did not, but a job had nothing to do with personal feelings. Paddy and Claire were the best example for this: The former IRA terrorist and the French CSI!

Claire and Paddy never ever even talked about it….they simply lived together…happily: Him now teaching Celtic languages at La Sorbonne, her slicing up rotten bodies at Garches. They never ever talked shop….And this had been the very problem with Erica….she'd been talking shop while they were making love... He had always been incapable of talking shop or whatsoever, when with a woman…he was just a pretty normal male, who'd rather think of the she under or above him, then of his pay check and the CrimLab!

Ryan glid into the cool waters of Claire's pond, relishing in the fresh cleanliness and enjoying the feel of tiny little fish nibbling at the wet hair on his legs. He could smell the heavy scent of Queen of Prairies and blue and yellow wild irises and the moonlight was reflecting yellowish in the black surface of the small lake.

His killer ribs stopped aching. The water was very cold, colder then he'd expected on a Midsummer Night. It did him a world of good. No pain any more. No feelings…just deep and dark waters.

He turned onto his back and drifted over to his favourite root. Claire always chided that this place of the pond was really disgusting, since the water lenses grew there and all the toads eggs floated under the surface, but Wolfe did not mind. He liked toads!

Claire and Paddy had a tame toad going by the name of Trevor, who visited them during summer on the terrace. They'd caress Trevor and give him tiny nibbles of worms, when they had no guests watching. He had no problem with toads and their eggs. He found Trevor rather endearing. Ryan hooked his arm over the root and let himself drift in the cold waters.

Claire had told him a bit earlier that he'd keep the scars. It had not been a good idea to stitch up the worst reminiscences of his encounter with Dimitrij Belkin. In order to prevent scaring, wounds needed to be stitched up immediately! Ryan had not known this. Quite often he had been together with Marc, when his veterinarian friend had been stitching together a horse or cow. Ryan had grown up on the countryside and liked animals. His love of wildlife and domestic pets had been one of the reasons, why he had formed a solid friendship with Marc Gantry. Marc was the reason why he knew, how it was done…stitching up!

But Marc had never told him about timeframes. He stretched out his hand and touched the soft feathers of one of the baby water chicken who were drifting in their sleep upon the pond. They were not afraid of humans. Paddy and Claire fed them all the time and if you were careful you could lift them up and pet them. The water chick did not even lift its tiny red-beaked head.

He could not care less: What difference did it make in the end, if he had a scar or two or not? He just enjoyed being alive, be himself and be here –under the moon and the stars – in a dark, cool pond and far away from all the troubles of the world, feeling the water on his skin and watching the night. Tomorrow would be another day and he'd think about what he'd do and how and when and perhaps wait for another phone call from Frank…..just in case that H. might have come to his senses and done something reasonable.

***

Lieutenant Caine was tired. He yearned for a bed and some hours of sleep. Nine o'clock in the morning on the other side of the Atlantic was 2 o'clock in the morning at Miami.

And it had not been a quick phone call! His colleague from Paris had kept him on line for almost two hours. And while the intelligence he'd received on Sarnoff's mob had been absolutely exciting, the few, short remarks concerning CSI Wolfe had been a down turn. Horatio had never ever felt so humiliated…by a stranger he had never met and would most likely never met face-to-face. Just one sentence, but this had been enough!

This prefect of Paris Police Forces – Horatio had understood that the man was something like a super-Chief with powers over police, military men, civil emergency responders and internal security – had simply asked him, how he could not have seen that his CSI had been tortured!

Nothing else: Ten simple words in rather good English with a heavy French accent! "Have you not seen, that your officer has been tortured?" Nothing else. Just ten words! Ten words and a voice that said more then one thousand words…

Hoartio felt guilty; he had not seen; he had not realised. He should have! In the end, he'd asked his French counterpart and the man had grudgingly revealed what one of their MEs had seen, but the French prefect was completely unwilling to dwell upon the issue; all he'd gotten from de Kersausson was a word to the wise; that it may be simply the best to leave his CSI alone for a couple of days, because he was just a human being and needed time to cope with what had happened.

De Kersausson had cut the discussion on Wolfe short, telling him in detail, what the French IT wizards had found out and explaining to Horatio what they were planning to do next. He also told him that he'd call his MDPD boss and make things right –from a strictly legal point of view. There was nothing strange about police forces cooperating beyond borders when it came to dangerous criminals like the Russian mafia.

"We shall stay in touch, Lieutenant Caine!" De Kersausson had told him. "This may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to clean out some scum…and I'll send your CSI back as soon as he's up to it !"

As soon as Ryan was up to it?

Horatio had agreed with de Kersausson, accepted his lavish gifts and shut his cell close.

He was brewing himself a strong coffee, rejecting the idea of getting some hours of sleep because he wanted to be at the MDPD as soon as his superiors would start their week and pondering upon the French idea to set up Sarnoff with an arms deal that would leave the Russian mobster most probably dead by the hands of his own friends. The French idea was excellent, also it was completely ruthless and immoral. But he wanted to mull it over. Have a cup of coffee, shower, shave, dress, go to the MDPD, wait and see and ….mull it over.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 20 Many Secrets

*

Frank had been waiting for Horatio right outside the MDPD. It was imperative that he caught Caine far away from prying eyes, curious ears and Rick Stetler. The boss of the CrimLab's Day Shift arrived at 8h30 sharp and at 8h45 was aware of the fact that the phonecall from CSI Wolfe had been a fake.

Horatio gave Tripp a hard look. "What else have you been talking about? How is he? I need to talk to Ryan now!"

Frank smiled and shook his head. "You do not need to talk to him, H.! Just let him be for a while and wait until he comes back."

Caine gave in. "Ok, Frank! Now all we need to do is cover up for him with Stetler and with Human Ressources. I suggest, you call Alexx Woods, explain everything to her and ask her, if she can get us some medical certificate, preferably with the signature of one of her colleagues….so it does not ring a bell with Rick."

Tripp nodded. He'd been thinking already of this possibility. Since Alexx had left the lab, she worked part time at the Miami Dade Hospital ER. "I take care of this immediately H. How was your phone call with that Frenchie chief of police?"

"De Kersausson! Surprising! They had more good luck then should be permitted and probably some very gifted IT people. He promised me to talk to our Chief and tell him a credible story. Considering the fact, that the guy seems to be as sleek as an eel and as glibbery as a jellyfish, I have no doubts, the Chief will swallow his bullshit and follow his lead. The argument, that we have incidentally a once in a lifetime occasion to crack down on the Russian mob in Paris and in Miami will do the trick."

Tripp took his leave, heading off to Alexx Wood's place and Horatio entered MDPD. The day shift receptionist handed him an envelope with his name written on it. He was slightly surprised, turned it around and saw CSI Wolfe's name and address as the sender. He thanked the girl, glid the envelope into his pocket and decided to give it a more thorough check up later on. With Frank's revelations concerning Ryan's phone call it was hardly possible that his CSI would have send him something. So this envelope was most probably another fake from the Russian Mob. He doubted that there would be anything concluding on the envelope or paper inside, considering the fact that Sarnoff's bunch had already professionally cleaned up Wolfe's house, but it might be still worth a try.

He had hardly made his round of greeting his collaborators, when a uniformed police officer hurried towards him and told him, that the Chief wanted to see him immediately.

"De Kersausson is quite the reactive partner in crime!" Horatio thought, giving the officer a smile and following him upstairs. "Now wait and see, what the Chief will tell me."

**

Woods was cleaning up the kitchen. After a nice family breakfast, following a wonderful family weekend, she had seen Peter and her children off and enjoyed the peace and the quite of a Monday morning alone at home. She never worked on Mondays. It was her day for cleaning, washing, ironing, shopping and other chores. In the early evening, before the family would return home, she went to her weekly yoga class at the local fitness studio. Monday was Alexx's day!

When the doorbell rang, she was a little bit surprised to open and look into Sergeant Frank Tripp's large, benign face. She was nonetheless happy to see the old copper, motioned him inside and settled him comfortably on the large terrace in front of her kitchen.

"You take some coffee with me, Frank! It's freshly brewed and I need a break from my chores."

Tripp acquiesced, dropped into a comfortable chair and they engaged in five minutes small talk about her boys and Peter, Alexx's husband. Frank dutifully admired Peter's latest handiwork, a beautifully carved teak cupboard on the terrace and admitted, that would the man not have been such a good osteopath and bone surgeon, he could have made a brilliant career as a carpenter.

"Now, Frankie-baby, what brings you to my home early on a Monday morning?" Alexx enquired with a cheeky smile. She had always liked the old copper, whose heart was exactly in the right place.

Tripp enjoyed the wonderful Costa Ricca Coffee with its tip of whipped cream and cocoa. There was nobody on the surface of the planet who could brew coffee like this, but Alexx Woods M.D . It was pure delight.

"What brings me, Alexx? Ryan! He needs your help…desperately!"

Alexx turned instantly pale under her dark skin. Already when she'd met H. at that garden party at McGregor's she'd had a bad feeling about Ryan. The few words, Horatio had slipped concerning his young CSI had not been right! She had tried to reason with Caine, get some more information….but the whole discussion had ended in an almost-brawl between her and the Lieutenant and she had not insisted in front of too many prying eyes and ears.

"What's the matter with Ryan?" She asked Tripp.

Her voice trembled. She had always had a soft spot for the hazel-eyed, brown haired CSI with the temperament of a thoroughbred racing horse. After her initial recalcitrant feelings, following Tim Speedles death in the line of duty and Wolfe's recruiting had faded, she had taken very much to him. Her instinct as a mother had told her that under his rather tough surface he was hiding a kindly, gentle soul and a good heart. She had been one of the very few, who'd always stood by Wolfe's side, not even shunning him, when Stetler fired him from the lab and H. did not come to his rescue.

Frank took another sip of coffee. "Alexx, what I tell you now is strictly between you and I, also it is Horatio's request that I do so!" He explained to her in detail, what had happened to Wolfe including all about Billy Gantry's kidnapping and Ryan's desperate stalling of their latest enquiry in order to save the boy's life.

" All we know, is that he's spend 12 very tough hours in the hand of that mobster. The Police Prefect of Paris has told H., that the kiddo has been tortured and is in bad physical shape…ok, they take good care of him over there and as far as I understood, he seems to be with his family…but nonetheless, we must cover up for him with Stetler and the IAB at least or else Ryan risks his job!"

"Poor baby!" Alexx replied, forcing down some tears that had welled up in her soft, gentle brown eyes.

"Peter's associate can write out the medical certificate. You know, Jason Brown, the huge teddy bear, whom you have seen on Peter's birthday party. He is also an osteopath and bone surgeon and Rick Stetler will not make the connection. They are altogether six doctors at the clinic and since it is only some 20 minutes on foot from the MDPD and works 24/24 7/7, it would only make sense that he goes there. I will see to it immediately, my friend. We will keep Ryan out of harms way as much as we can. I believe, that four weeks of medical leave are more then justified, if we give him a couple of broken ribs, damage to the spleen or the liver and a risk of pneumothorax!"

Tripp smiled. "I trust you, Alexx. It must only be credible enough to give the kiddo the time he needs to heal, to come to his senses and back into the fold!"

***

Serge Poniatowski stretched out his hand. "Otshen prijatno, Alexandr Sergeevitsch! Thank you very much for receiving me so quickly."

The other man took the hand, pressed it firmly and led his guest to a table, where a dutiful secretary had prepared coffee, tea and some pastries. They were alone in the lavish office on the fifth floor of a six-floors XIX. Century Hausmann building on Foch Avenue.

Poniatowski took the offered seat, accepted coffee and a fresh croissant and opened his well-cut grey business jacket to make himself comfortable.

"Now, Timofeij Aronovitsch, what can I do to you, early on a Monday morning?" The Paris-based Russian mobster replied in a strictly business voice. Each and every innocent bystander who'd observed the two man in the office would have sworn an oath, that a simply discussion between to executives was going to begin.

Outside the lavish Hausmann building on the Avenue Foch, a diminutive punky-haired girl in a kaki green tank top, army trousers and DocMartens Combat Boots adjusted her earpiece and chuckled softly. "He is in, he drinks coffee and he eats a croissant, Commandant Delveaux!" Lise Simon said with a malicious smile. "My little toy works perfectly."

Delveaux kissed her cheek."You are the best, Lise! We know. Now you give an earpiece to the nice lady and shut up….as far as I know, your Russian is rather weak!"

Lise Simon, the 25-years old IT-wizard of the DGRI Cybercrime Unit blew Delveaux a kiss. "Everything you want, pretty boy!" She replied with cheek and handed an earpiece to an elderly lady, who was a simultaneous translator for Russian with the Paris Police Prefecture.

"Is it still night time in Moscow?" Poniatowski had just said the very sentence that made Rossinski understand that the other man was a member of the 'Bratstvo' and on official 'Bratstvo' business in Paris.

" In Moscow everybody is at work right now!" Rossinski replied, delivering his key sentence. The atmosphere in the office on the fifth floor changed in a nick. Both men had proven that they belonged to the same organisation and would work together. The translator became suddenly very tense.

" Commander Poniatowski has stated his business and Rossinski is telling him that he will provide whatever help is needed."

"Good!" Delveaux smiled. That was much easier then he'd thought it would be. The tape recorder in the camouflaged police vehicle recorded every word of Rossinski and their undercover agent.

Lise Simon was almost as tense as the interpreter, also she could not understand a single word of Russian. All she was interested in was the BlackBerry in Commander Poniatowski's breast pocket. She'd bugged it with a receiver that worked no matter the BlackBerry was online or switched off. But the device was a fickly thing, depending on a minute power supply that was still experimental and could break down at every moment in time. The device was her brain's child and she trembled for her baby.

Poniatowski was explaining Sarnoff's hit order on Wolfe and how he lost track on the CSI at CDG-Roissy.

Rossinski gave a deep sigh. "The man must have travelled with a Schengen passport, Timofeij Aronovitsch! Do not worry, no fault of yours! Only European citizens under the Schengen agreement get through French customs at such a speed. But we have friends at Customs and we shall find out where he is....no matter how much he tries to hide!"

"I shall be eternally in your debt, Alexandr Sergueivitsch!" Poniatowski-Belkin replied in his best 'I am an obedient soldier of the Bratstvo voice'.

"You do not worry, my friend!" The French mobster spoke. " Please give me your phone number and the necessary information to reach you. I will send out my men. We will be in touch"

Poniatowski-Belkin took the glorious occasion and pulled the BlackBerry from his pocket. Lise had also integrated a little video device which was even more fragile and experimental then the listening device. Suddenly Rossinski's office appeared on the screen of the police vehicle. The image was very mediocre, but considering the fact that everything worked on a turned off BlackBerry made even this mediocre image a wonder of technology.

Rossinski did not react. He simply took the phone number Poniatowski wrote on a yellow post. "You should check out from Concorde-L'Étoile, Timofeij Aronovitsch..", the Paris-based Russian mobster advised his guest from Miami, " Unfortunatelly the French police forces and intelligence services are a highly suspicious bunch and keep this hotel under constant surveillance. The Concorde has many guests from the Middle East, some of them suspect of involvement with Al Quaida...".

Together with Lise Simon and the elderly interpreter, Delveaux observed how Rossinski fumbled a set of keys from a drawer. He handed it to their undercover agent. "This is a safe place, my friend" The Mobster wrote down the address. "Stay there until we contact you!"

"And my people?" Belkin-Poniatowski enquired innocently.

"I shall contact Vladimir Sergueivitsch in Miami. Timofeij Aronovitsch! We will handle this matter together." With these words he dismissed his visitor and a pretty secretary ushered Poniatowski-Belkin out of Alexandr Rossinski's office. What neither Rossinski, nor his pretty secretary realised was, that Poniatowski had managed to plant a minuscule bug on his way out of the premises.

The team in the police van down on Avenue Foch was jubilant. Delveaux flipped his cell phone open and called headquarters.

***

The Chief of the MDPD had kept Lieutenant Caine for almost three hours, Leaving his superior's premises Horatio greeted Stetler, who sat in his office, brooding over some documents . The IAB Sergeant lifted his head and quickly acknowledged the boss of the CrimLab Day Shift. He had other problems then Caine's unruly CSIs at this moment. The file on his table was of the utmost importance. It seemed, as if two patrol man under his authority had decided together, that the county's paycheck was not enough. According to his notes. The two men had found a way to improve their weekly pay by racketing the owners of several Chinese restaurants downtown. He could not allow this to happen. Forgetting about Caine and the CSIs, Stetler send an e-mail to the direct superior of the two coppers. He had tough work at hand. Two rogue coppers, who were shedding a bad light at the MDPD.

****

Calleigh Dusquene gave Eric Delko a beautiful smile. They had spend a wonderful weekend together enjoying the ocean, the sun and the soft breeze down at Ball Harbour Island. Eric was teaching Calleigh how to scuba dive and she had appreciated her experience under the seas, observing the colourful fish and beautiful water flora through the mask of her gear. They had not gone deep. Just about 10 meters were sufficient to see the best of Miami's underwater wildlife and it was also safe for a beginner. Calleigh felt a bit exhausted from the not so habitual exercise and her legs ached from too much swimming and too much lovemaking, but she would not have missed this weekend for the world. She felt so good with Eric…complete and sated. He was different from her former lovers; kinder, more selfless, much more caring! It were perhaps these few years of age that made the difference. Never before, Calleigh Dusquene had taken a lover to her bed, who was her junior. But maturity-wise Eric outmatched even Jake Berkley and he was less obsessed, less interested in his own ego.

Calleigh's hand brushed discretely over Eric's when the younger man picked a forensics journal from her table in the ballistics lab. Surprisingly their week had not started on frenetic phone calls from 911 or some downtown coppers, who had stumbled over some gory after-weekend crime scene just at the beginning of their Monday morning shift. After a trying, highly exciting and most dangerous week, Miami seemed as much at peace as she was herself. She chuckled softly when Eric left the lab, brushing his body discreetly against hers and closing the door silently. She would pick out some Cold Case to pass time until shift's end and try to look forward to another evening with her exciting new lover.

*****

Eric Delko kept his happy smile on his face until he entered his own lab. On the way over from Calleigh's he had greeted BonaVista and Valera and he had said a quick 'Hello' to Travers. Since this Monday morning seemed peaceful –after a roller coaster week with the Russian mob – he decided to pick up on the latest scientific developments in the field of fingerprints. He poured himself a coffee from a ready thermos on his desk and made himself comfortable.

The weekend with Calleigh had been an absolute success: She showed great promises as a diver, being physically fit, astute and completely fearless. Never before had he so much enjoyed teaching an absolute newcomer. Habitually he was short-tempered and exacting with diving newbbies, expecting them to literally get the knack by watching him. Eric new that he was not a good teacher. He was most certainly not an enthusiastic one, but with her things were completely different.

After a long time spent, chasing after non-committing and mostly anonymous encounters he had finally found the perfect woman! He had always liked Calleigh, but after he had been shot, he had done a lot of thinking, putting his life and aims into perspective and somewhere on that path he had to admit to himself that running after the chicks and womanising as if his life depended on it had only been a failed attempt to deny his true feelings. He was simply in love with Calleigh and could not imagine living his life without her.

Turning over the pages of his forensics journal without actually reading them and sipping at his coffee, Eric let wander his thoughts back to each and every moment of the weekend with Calleigh, reliving in his head those tender moments, when she woke him up with a kiss and a breakfast for two in bed, when they had been in her shower together just right after returning from Ball Harbour Island and before going out to diner, the soft candlelight that had made her green eyes look like emeralds at their small restaurant close to Calleighs place, where they used to fed each other with tiny bits from their plates, because nobody would be watching them….

"Eric?" The voice repeated for the third time, now louder and with more insistence. Delko's head snapped up from the Forensiscs Journal. He could not prevent his cheeks from taking some slight colouring and hoped, that the unexpected visitor would not see and devine from his unease that nothing had been about fingerprints and everything about Calleigh during the last few minutes.

"Valera! What can I do for you?" He asked the Lab Technician, specialised in DNA analysis and habitually working with Nathalia BoaVista, who by now had become a CSI trainee, working more on crime scenes then downstairs in her little scientific world.

"I was just looking for Ryan and thought I would find him around her!" Maxine replied.

Delko wrinkled his nose and gave her a disgusted look that was more explicit then 1000 words could have been. "I very much doubt, that would be around somewhere here. You may perhaps give it a try and look downstairs at the garbage cans. Maybe he's trying to look out for more evidence he might have dropped last week!"

Maxine gave Delko a surprised and somewhat upset look, thanked him frostily, turned around and left the fingerprints and traces lab without another word. She had been aware of the tension between Delko and Ryan, ever since the young former cop had integrated the CrimLab after Tim Speedle's death. She had also been on occasions witness to the very rough treatment, Wolfe was receiving from the good-looking and habitually rather nice Cuban American. But she was somewhat surprised by extremely nasty turn, the relationship between the two male officers on Lieutenant Caine's Day Shift team seamed to take, ever since Eric had gotten himself heavily involved with Calleigh Dusquene.

While Eric and CSI Dusquene attempted to keep this relationship quiet, it was no secret to the more gifted observers at the CrimeLab, that what was going on was far beyond the habitual boundaries of work place friendship.

Maxine Valera, contrary to many other co-workers was not a chatty person and never one for spreading rumours or messing around in other people's lives, but she had eyes to see and the extreme downturn between Ryan and Delko had become terribly obvious, even to the blind, when Eric's association with Calleigh started to hit the eye. Maxine knew perfectly well that this had nothing to do with CSI Dusquene herself or some kind of stupid male competition over a female prey.

Contrary to 95% of her co-workers at the CrimLab – and this included Lieutenant Caine – she knew quite a bit about the loves and life of one CSI Ryan Wolfe, also it was more by accident then by Ryan actually having confided in her.

All had begun some four years ago, when Wolfe had still been somewhat of a rokkie with the day shift team, fresh out of his patroller uniform and in the oversized shoes of Tim Speedle, that fitted the poor boy so badly.

Maxine Valera had just been looking out for another sports club after having bought a nice, new flat close to Miami's "El Barrio" Latino quarter and the Wynwood Arts District. Unfortunately, Fencing Clubs were scarce in Miami and Dade County! And Fencing Clubs, where an experienced and performant fencer could train with equals and not just annoying beginners to the sport were even scarcer! Finally and after very difficult investigation, she stumbled over Miami International University's Athletics Department and their fencing section, which would also allow good fencers in, even if they were no longer students.

And there Maxine Valera had stumbled on bright Saturday morning over one Ryan Wolfe!

Fencing was a sport misunderstood by most Americans, although the US fencers habitually performed excessively well at the international level and always brought home shiny medals against the crack fencing nations France and Russia. Fencing was "physical chess" and almost as boring to the spectator as true chess on a black and white board.

It was enormous fun for the athlete, so, and Maxine had taken to the foil already at age 12, when attending her first-ever 'team sports fair' at her local school.

She had walk into the gym and there had been five 'booths' in front of her, each one manned by a head coach eager to get her attention and size her up for the team. So, what had those teams been? Why, the usual suspects of course: football, baseball, basketball, soccer and–what's this?–fencing?

"What's Darth Vader doing in my gym?" Had been her first thought, but the coach got her hooked and she had stayed on, through school, college, university and even now, while working at the MDPD Crim Lab.

She'd been pretty much surprised when one of the sabre guys after a rather heated and very aggressive fight with a lightening-quick opponent had torn off his protective mask and brought his sabre to his front in a sign of defeat and reconnaissance. The defeated fencer had been Ryan, the winner of the round Florida's sabre champion Elliott Waters, who had been several times on the US team at the international level. Maxine had been absolutely enchanted, when she realised that she'd be able to practice in the same team with Waters. He was a living legend in Florida's absolutely minute fencing community!

Ryan –seeing and recognising her- had greeted her friendly, but returned immediately to his Saturday pastime, when Waters offered him 'revenge'. Maxine in the meantime had been showing to the coach of the female branch what she was able to do with her foil, had gotten approved as a wonderful addition with sufficient potential and signed up. When the training session was over and Ryan Wolfe cleaned up and showered, he had insisted on introducing her to his buddies and they had all gone out for a drink and a bite.

And for the last four years, since Maxine was fencing at MIU, this had become their Saturday morning ritual, also neither acknowledged that peculiar familiarity between athletes of the same club at work. Wolfe was too private a man to do so and Maxine felt a little bit upset to let her co-workers know that she was addict to a rather old-fashioned and not very popular sport.

The MIU Fencing Club was the very reason, why Maxine knew that Wolfe never ever had the slightest interest in CSI Dusquene and his frosty relationship with Eric Delko was not founded in male jealousy.

During her first two years at the club, when the MIU Team went on competitions, Maxine would see Wolfe most of the time accompanied by Erica Sykes, the CBS MTVFour reporter, who had given them occasional trouble.

She had been surprised then, to realize how nice and normal Erica could be, as soon as she was out of her reporter's clothes and what a nice, happy and funny couple she and Ryan made. Also Wolfe did not talk about his life and/or Erica with Maxine, he did not hide it either. Somehow he had assumed correctly, that Valera was no talker or rumour monger, sufficiently well-bred to keep job and past times apart and of the kind, who would not carry her weekends right into the premises of the MDPD.

Then –after a literally forced break up with Erica - Maxine still suspected Lieutenant Caine and enormous pressure from the CrimLab authorities had caused Wolfe to say good bye to the girl - she had always seen him alone.

No female company at all and no interest in hooking up with somebody else. He'd become even a bit reclusive, which manifested itself in his fencing style. When Maxine had seen him during Erica's days, he'd been very good and very swift, but rather one of those playful fencers, who'd lose matches by doing something perfectly stupid and illogic.

After Erica, Ryan's style had changed….Elliott Waters had been enchanted about it, adding another guy who'd make points with clockwork precision for MIU at the Florida State league level.

But Maxine had found it rather dull; Ryan had lost a lot of his natural grace and playfulness with the sabre and during training sessions she'd actually seen several of his adversaries flinch. He'd started to fight very tough and very rough! As an opponent, he'd become outright dangerous and while during Erica's days she'd enjoyed the occasional fooling around on the strip with him, now she'd no longer accept his challenges. She was fencing for fun and did not want to get hurt, while Wolfe had become quite a piece of….

This had also been the reason why she was looking out for him: Basically they had agreed last week on Saturday, that they'd go together to the Vidosa Memorial Tournement at Barry University at Miami Shores, which was also a sabre qualifier for the Florida State Finals in October. Ryan had offered to drive and pick her up at MIU together with her stuff. But the blasted man had never come and she'd found herself literally the fifth wheel on the cart in the bunk of another team member.

Eliott Waters had been fuming with rage, when his sabre team had appeared at the tournament one mean blade short and since they had not been able to reach Ryan on neither his cell nor his private phone, Waters had asked her to give him a piece of the team's mind right on Monday morning!

She trotted off, peeping into each and every office on her way back down to DNA and hoping to stumble over the faithless sabre. Also it had not affected the women score and they'd beaten their opponents heads high, the guys had come out only second after the scrawny little rascals of Miami Fencing Club, their longstanding, toughest concurrence.

To her great surprise, she did not find Wolfe anywhere around the Lab, but when she finally returned to DNA, she stumbled over a rare visitor. Lieutenant Horatio Caine was fiddling around with some of her most expensive hardware, seemingly absorbed in his task.

She let him finish what he was doing, just standing at the side and keeping her silence. DNA analysis was tricky and did not bear well any distractions. When he lifted his head, she smiled. Valera had a day off and she was alone downstairs. She felt a bit guilty for having abandoned her post just in order to find Ryan and rough him a bit up over a Fencing Tournament.

"I am sorry, Sir! I was just upstairs looking for CSI Wolfe." She explained to the boss.

"Then I understand, Miss Valera, that you were off for a long and unsuccessful quest!" He replied in his calm voice with that patent tiny itch of sarcasm he seemed to put in whatever he said…even if it was only a statement concerning the weather or the quality of the coffee.

"Do you have an idea, where I may find him? It is not urgent, but …."

Horatio gave her a smile. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Valera, CSI Wolfe will not be with us for a couple of weeks. He had a very bad encounter in the line of duty and is actually recovering from several broken ribs and some other physical traces of his mishap."

"Oh, that explains certain things!" Maxine said softly as if speaking to herself.

"Miss Valera?" Caine gave her a curious glance.

Here was somebody who seemed to know something concerning Ryan, that he did not yet know, but that maybe would shed some more light on the unsettling tide of events since last week Wednesday.

His research into the originator of what he believed to be a fake medical certificate had been unsuccessful, proving to Horatio that this thing indeed did not come from his CSI or the doctor whose signature was on the sheet. He had found neither fingerprint –other then post office workers- nor whatsoever traces –including DNA, proof that someone rather knowledgeable had been setting up all this. …rather knowledgeable, for a truly knowledgeable expert would have immediately understood that complete absence of traces would set of all alarm bells ringing in another truly knowledgeable colleague!

"Oh, he just did not turn up on Saturday morning for a sports event in which we both were to participate, Sir….and the other team members were just wondering, why he did not call. That's not his style, you know! But well….with broken ribs he'd not been able to participate anyhow. Thanks for telling me, Sir!"

"You are welcome, Miss Valera!" Caine replied, picking up his folder with the fake certificate and envelope and taking his leave from DNA. When he was just about to close the door, he heard Maxine speaking into her cell phone to some unknown correspondent, seemingly a sports buddy of hers and CSI Wolfe's and explaining to the correspondent, that Wolfe had had some serious medical problem, which was the reason why he had not turned up at Barry University. So indeed, Ryan had never ever planed to disappear and had made his decision on the spot and under utmost duress....


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 21 Smelling Blood

*

It had been surprisingly easy to break the defences of the Russian mobster, Belkin!

Officer Jean Duval had given him the rest! Officer Duval was a secret weapon of the Paris Police Forces.

Préfet Erwan de Kersausson smiled evilly, when he explained what they'd done to the 'Procureur Adjoint"1 : Officer Duval was probably the most disturbing thing, they could have put in front of a man like Timofeij Belkin and maybe some Humanitarian Rights Watch would have declared him outright torture!

Duval was sixty years old, forty of them had been spent with the Paris Police Forces and he was just twelve months away from a well-merited retirement with honours. The old copper was happy father of four and happy grandfather of nine. He was happily married to a nice, kindly wife, had a dog and a cat and went for his weekends into the countryside to take care of his garden. He enjoyed his job, had never ever drawn his gun in the line of duty and was something of a poster boy in the Public Relations Department of the Prefecture. With his greying moustaches, little belly and kindly blue eyes, good-natured, soft spoken and smiling, he habitually toured the pre-schools and schools of the Paris region to sensibilise children to the duties and tasks of the Police Forces.

This was one of the reasons, why they had hired out Duval for a couple of hours from PR! The other was that the old chap spoke perfect English. Since school touring would not fill a day, Duval had been put in charge of some European police officers exchange program a couple of years ago and was very good at making a good impression upon foreigners.

Not that it was tremendously important to project the perfect image of the French Police upon Belkin. The man was a rogue and they could not care less what he thought of them. But it was all about manipulating him, to do their will….and Duval had succeeded perfectly.

When the old copper had entered the premises with Belkin's secure holding cell, he'd carried a tray with a nice afternoon tea break including scones. After the other officer had left, Duval had pulled the table and a chair close to the bars and invited the prisoner to join him in the break, chattering happily with him. Belkin –disoriented and avid for a word from a human being- had literally jumped on the occasion. Two hours later they understood, that the man was rather willing to take the bait and accept an offer to talk in exchange for his freedom, some money, a new identity and a fresh start away from his dangerous friends. Confronted with the choice of either being expulsed to the Americans on charges of 'Association of Criminals', 'Incitation to High Crime' and 'Planning of Murder' or to spend a very long moment –on the same charges – in a French prison cell, Belkin had chosen to rather be free and quit.

"So do you think, you can turn him and make him go back as a mole?" The substitute enquired avidly. This would have been the coup of the year, to manage and infiltrate the Ismayilovskaja, even if it meant to turn the mole over to the Americans for handling.

De Kersausson shook his head. "I am afraid this will not work! Belkin is very much aware of the dangers to go back inside and play 'agent double'. He's told me flat out that he would not life long enough to cash in the money we offer. He's not a dunce! But he is willing to sing like a nightingale! He understands perfectly that it will be nearly impossible for his buddies to find him over here, once we stage his untimely death in conjunction with the "demise" of our young friend from Miami, CSI Wolfe!"

The substitute gave de Kersausson an approving nod. He fully approved the Organised Crime Unit's project. The Russian mafia had slowly but determinedly crept into France. On the surface it appeared that they had less problems then either the Germans or the Americans or the Israelis. But under the surface the situation was not better for Paris, then for Berlin or Tel Aviv or Washington. It was only different.

The 'Bratstvo' indulged in a different type of high crime here in France, then over in Israel or in the US or in Germany. The Russians were clever, ruthless and very flexible and they habitually exploited to the fullest and successfully the legal shortcomings they could detect in their various host countries: In France the Russians had exploited the banking system and the very slow and not always very accurate communication between the National Bank of France and the countries other banks. Between 1994 and 1999 the 'Bratstvo' managed to transfer 11 billions of Euros out of the USSR and later Russia and straight into France with only six times attracting the attention of the French Treasury and its investigators.

With this money from various fields of high crime –drugs, alcohol, prostitution, blackmail, murder and arms trafficking, the Mob had then offered itself lavish real estate all over the Hexagone, turning blood money into perfectly legal assets. besides buying out top of the notch real estate in the most lavish parts of the French capital, the mob had managed to acquire incredible real estate at the Cote d'Azur . Luckily for the French, the Russian mobsters would rather get their gold into the country and spend it on whatever luxury money could buy, then on wracking havoc, as they did in the US and right over the border in Germany. But this did prevent the 'Bratja' from also resorting to nasty acts of violence if they could not meet their goals with a simple draft on some bank!

Although the French police struggled less with the more gruesome aspects of the 'Bratstvo', the Americans, the Germans and the Israelis knew so well, they had also their yoke to carry: Other a rather practical banking system that allowed rather easy money laundering, France was also an international platform for weapons, military hardware and sophisticate IT that could be employed for military and security purposes. Legal and not so legal arms merchants had elected the capital Paris to be one of their favourite commercial turn tables already in the 1950ies, when the decolonialisation of Africa and Asia offered opportunities to the ruthless. And next to London, Paris was the best place to go, if you wanted to hire irregulars –mercenaries.

The 'Bratstvo' fully understood this opportunity and was giving the French authorities quite a handful in aforementioned fields!

And the French authorities hated it…which was the very reason why the substitute of the State Attorney of the capital was so keen on Belkin's revelations and so enthusiastic about Erwan de Kersausson's most recent pet project.

"You try to negotiate Belkin's leftovers with our other European friends, with the Americans and the Russians, I presume? " He enquired with the Préfect, giving his watch a nervous glance. He had a very important meeting at the Ministry of Justice in less then an hour, but he was curious.

"As usual, Monsieur le Substitute!" De Kersausson replied with a smile.

They'd pick the cherries from the cake for themselves and hand out the rest to friends, allies and associates….harvesting in exchange interesting intelligence, good-neighbourly services and occasionally also allowances for economic actors of France.

A terrorist together with proof of his involvement in 9/11 for example could bring a nice, juicy contract with the US MoD for some French defence contractor with a dependency over in the States and financial information on Russian money laundered through a French Bank together with the name of the launderer and the print outs of the account would always bring splendid intelligence on some unruly French businessman, who'd earn Euros in Russia, which he may not have declared to the French Treasury….Belkin would be as good a deal as all his predecessors and successors in the business of law enforcement. De Kersausson complimented the substitute out of his beautiful office, rubbed his well-manicured hands and went to work.

He had some most interesting projects for the day.

Professeur Claire Charpentier had been quickly over at Garches hospital to organise her team and the work for the next few days. She informed hospital administration that she would take a few days off for family reasons, then hurried to the dependency of Paris University V and picked up a doctoral thesis for which she would provide an initial evaluation by the end of the week.

The secretary pushed several envelopes into Claire's hands, reassured her, that she'd keep in touch should need arise, had everything under control and would herself be on leave from Thursday till July 14th.

Claire pecked her long-time employee French style on both cheeks, wished her nice holidays and hurried like a whirlwind from the Medical School Building.

She wanted to stop by the open market at Garches in order to buy some of Ryan's favourite food stuff….all these little things he could simply not find over in Florida. She hoped that the unruly 32 years old "child" would stay peacefully in his bed to sleep out at least his jetlag and the nightly conspirators meeting with JP, his colleague Delveaux, that Poniatowski bear and her very unreasonable almost husband.

She had given Paddy a nice piece of her mind, when he had finally turned in from the session in the garden and Paddy had taken his punishment with good graces and only the hint of a malicious smile on his lips.

Claire hurried towards one of her favourite fruit stalls, choosing rapidly four beautiful Cavaillon melons. Ryan loved them together with air-dried Italian ham.

Hopefully Paddy would not bother his son out of bed, just because he needed to discuss "something very important" with the younger man.

Being a Professor of Celtic Studies, her soon-to-be husband was unfortunately already on holidays for three weeks. Spring term with France's universities was over by the end of May and Autumn term would only start on September 1st, so the man had all the time in the world to wreak havoc and do mischief.

She knew that he had a bit of work to do over the holidays. Nothing breathtaking, just some evaluations of doctoral students, the preparation of a postgraduate course in Middle Breton and translation work on a recently discovered manuscript form the and attributed to Duke Conan.

But considering the fact, that said manuscript had been sleeping for one thousand years in a tomb, she doubted that Paddy would rush it……the Celtologist community of France, Europe and the World would not mind receiving his brain's child a couple of days earlier or later!

Claire decided to take some wonderful green asparagus fresh from the Loire Valley together with new potatoes from Mont Saint Michel and a kilo of aubergines.

Ryan loved her green asparagus with a light butter crust and bread crumbles. He was capable to wolf down an entire kilo all alone and without difficulties.

She made a mental note to stop on her way home at the Saint-Nom grocers, who sold a range of bio dairy products from farms in the vicinity to pick sour cream and also some white farmers cheese for next day's breakfast.

Claire wandered along the market stalls with her wicker basket over her arm.

Part of her needed to rush back home in order to keep an attentive eye on the younger male of the O'Briain family, but another part needed to think for five minutes all alone and away from the guys.

She understood perfectly well what was going on with Paddy: Having been informed A to Z about what had brought the wrath of his old Russian enemies upon his son, her man was not only very, very angry, but also terrified.

Padraig loved his son desperately. Ryan was all that was left of his first wife, Mary Wolfe. Claire knew that even 29 years after her death, Paddy still loved her. He always would, although this did not change or lessen his feelings for her. But it was a fact!

Ryan had inherited his father's physic and temper, but he had his mother's eyes and every time, Paddy looked into the eyes of his son, he'd see Mary Wolfe.

Padraig – made angry- could suddenly turn into a highly dangerous predator. His past was not yet so far away, that he'd lost his punch and old reflexes. Padraig –if sufficiently terrified, because he felt, that his son was in danger- would become literally uncontrollable! And Moulin would not try to control him. He might even be tempted to encourage her man to go out hunting with the pack. He had done it before!

She still remembered vividly the case of the Huelgoat serial killer which had brought the two of them together and that image of her man snapping another man's neck with his bare hands; unflinching, without hesitation, pitiless and without remorse. She still remembered his inhuman eyes.

Well, the situation had been extreme then; the killer had managed to put two rounds of 9mm into JP, leaving the rookie police officer slowly choking on his own blood at the bottom of the so-called "Grotte du Diable" – Devil's Grotto, a famous site in the legendary forest, that the beast had chosen to perpetrate his atrocious crimes. She had been caught between his last victim and the killer, armed with one of his famed antique, priceless Celtic daggers and an automatic that held still another 11 rounds, when Paddy had appeared on the scene. They had been expecting police backup, but her man – just involved for his expertise as a linguist and historian- had had better instincts then Moulin's colleagues from law enforcement.

It had taken him less then two minutes to asses the situation, make a decision, act upon it, leave a dead man behind and get her and JP out of the worst trouble. She was the M.D., but she had been too shocked after her almost-murder, to provide Moulin with emergency first aid. Paddy had known exactly what to do…..it had been the first and only time in her career, Claire had seen someone do a tracheotomy on a choking man with a simple Swiss Army Knife and a BIC ballpoint pen.

Claire decided, that it was more important to rein in Padraig, then to keep Ryan under control: Ryan was reasonable and he always played within the confines of the law. He would not suddenly turn bad cop, because he was out to take some revenge or settle his score with the Russian mob! He'd simply try and help de Kersausson, Delveaux and Moulin to solve this case and get a maximum profit from a splendid opportunity. He might be tempted to play nasty, if de Kersausson would relax his leash and give the whole bunch kind of 'Carte Blanche', but this would never go really over the edge.

Her man was different: Paddy had never ever played within the confines of the law and had absolutely no qualms about getting his hands dirty, should need arise. He was a wonderful person and she loved him, but he was also dangerous like an enraged dog and in the given situation –with a clear and present danger to his son - Claire felt, that it was more prudent to not trust Padraig!

***

As soon as Claire had left the house to do her biddings, Dr. Padraig O'Briain took the opportunity to call in some favours. First he made sure that his son was still asleep. No need to bother Ryan with this! Then he retrieved a cell phone from a drawer in his office and disappeared in the garden. The phone numbers were all confined to Paddy's memory. He was a strong believer in memory; for what was not written down could not be spied upon by unwelcome eyes!

The first call went to an old comrade at arms, who had taken a strangely peaceful retirement in Moscow, managing a fashionable riding club – Pradar - in one of the extensive parks of the Russian capital. Paddy had been surprised, when he'd learned of the reconversion of ex-KGB Colonel Vasilij Petrovitsch Tiomkin, whose former business had been to see to the management of several very secret training camps mainly in Northern African states oriented towards socialism.

During the 70ies and 80ies, the PIRA had been using these camps, as had Action Directe2 , the German RAF3, the Italian Red Brigades4 and many other Western terrorist organisations of the extreme left political wing. But times had changed and so had these groups. Most of them had been exterminated, others were reduced to sheer insignificance and others –like the IRA and its emulations- had become almost respectable and were playing the political game in the light of the day under new names and without weapons.

But some of the friendships that had been formed between comrades during these bloody years, had remained intact. Paddy and Vasilij were one such strange fellowship of reconverted and superficially rather respectable survivors. It had been Tiomkin, who had tipped off O'Brian, when the last hit man of the Ismaiylovskaya had been sent after him by Oleg Ivanov, the "vozhd". Paddy never asked Vasilij how it came that he was so perfectly aware of the ongoing inside the Russian mob.

The conversation between the two men was short. Paddy spoke fairly good Russian – PIRA obliged and Tiomkin, also he was fluent in English, French and German appreciated the courtesy. He promised O'Briain that he would see what he could do for him and return the call within the next 48 hours. Paddy felt slightly better, after he closed his cell phone shut.

The next call was not an international, just a short ring to Strasbourg –headquarters of the European Parliament – and since the last European elections home to Sean O'Flaherty, Irish Member of the European Parliament, originally from the Sinn Fein5. O'Flaherty was an old comrade of Padraig's who had turned –at least officially- to honourable politicking- when on 28 July 2005, the IRA announced the end of armed combat and its intention to pursue reunification of Ireland with peaceful means.

Ten minutes later, Ryan Wolfe's father had a fairly good idea on how he'd get his son's hit definitively cancelled. That Russian mobster in Miami, Ivan Sarnoff would probably not appreciate, but he could not care less.

He dialled the next number. It belonged to Erwan de Kersausson, Police Prefect of Paris and an old friend.

Half past eleven! Ryan gave his watch a defiant glance. This blasted timepiece would not make him feel guilty! He decided, that he could not care less. He'd merited every single minute of this peaceful night and he even might draw the cup to its very bottom, turn around, snatch his cosy duvet and lay in for another 30 minutes. Nobody would care! Claire and Paddy would be happy to see him turn up just in time for lunch….Claire for medical reasons: "Poor baby needed some rest!", Paddy probably, because Claire had given him a piece of her mind and he was not incline to have another….

He carefully tried to stretch: Well, he was as stiff as a broomstick, but apart this little inconvenience everything seemed fine. Wolfe decided to give it a try: Legs? Two! In place, on the ground! Head? Right on his shoulders….a bit stiff and aching, but they reported present too. Arms? Right one …Ok! Operational. Left? Stiff! Hurts like hell! Probably due to that blasted iron tube that had hit it several times…but he could do without it. He was right-handed anyhow. Vision? Not tremendously clear, but he knew where the bathroom was and he could life another day without shaving. Erica once had told him, that he was sexy with a three-days beard! Claire would not mind and she could not even imagine him to be something like "sexy"….how could she? She'd seen him a scrawny, dangly cub with acne buttons all over his face … a face only a mother or benign step-mother could have loved in those days.

He crawled out of his comfortable nest and right into the bathroom. Better not to check on the other body parts! Habitually, haematomas, concussions and other blows hurt best three days after. It was a rather joyful experience to get into the shower…..for a diehard masochist!

Ryan cursed softly between clenched teeth, but fortunately nobody was listening and he simply slumped to the ground in the cabinet, leaned against the tiles, opened the water and waited. According to his watch it took twenty minutes to lift the veil, but he felt definitively….more human. He even rediscovered his brains…lack of caffeine together with a strange double vision and several parts of his body not working as they should had almost pushed him downstairs with a white towel slung around his hips. Not that anybody would have minded…but he himself, could not imagine to drink a cuppa with his stepmother and father in such a state of undress!

A good ghost obviously had replenished the armoire with stuff. Ryan was still not incline to wear Hugo Boss and bloody Forzieri if he could avoid it and his hasty departure from Miami had prevented him even from taking the essentials. He gave the pristine underwear, Claire had provided a hateful look: How could a normal woman even imagine a normal guy of 32 years of age to wear such stuff. He could not imagine, it belonged to his old man. Paddy would never wear cotton boxers with a Black Watch tartan pattern. And the white T-shirt –he rejected it on the spot – looked as if it belonged to Antony Quinn in "Zorbas the Greek", dated 1964….about 12 years before he had been conceived! The kaki shirt and kaki trousers were ok. He did not mind. Since he could not put a toe out of the property for at least 24 more hours, or else his French friends would take away the 9 mm and the plate, he was something of a prisoner anyhow. It did not matter that he looked like Ivan Sarnoff's elder baby brother in the days of the Gulag. He made a mental not to get himself the adequate haircut.

"Wolfe, either that cider was not 4 degrees but 40, or you forgot your common sense at home in Miami!" He chided himself. "You are not Erica getting crack-a-nuts over your wardrobe!" He gave the hand-knitted sweater –kaki- a hateful look and made his way to the door and downstairs. Who'd wear a lovingly hand knitted pure new wool sweater with an Irish pattern on a 21st of June in France? It was boiling hot outside! Grannies and Grandpas dying all around like flies from asthma or sunstroke. Even Miami seemed suddenly cool to Ryan.

Frank Tripp's impromptu phone call was still trotting inside his head. Basically it had not been a great surprise! There were altogether 2 people in the CrimLab, who had the mental acuity to figure it out : The first was indeed Sergeant Frank Tripp! Frank had it all: instinct, intuition, keen sense of observation and humanity to try and find out what really happened and why! Frank could not mess around in Horatio's business, but he could think for himself and he was a fair player. Ryan was rather happy that it had been Frank and not the second guy with brains: Stetler!

Rick Stetler –if Horatio would have told him approximatively 25 % of the truth – would have been able to figure it out, too! Ok, contrary to Tripp, Stetler had the advantage to know the full contents of his file at Human Resources, including his address, the fact that he had a bit of money and the origin of it, a very legal inheritance from a European relative. Stetler was also anything but a dunce and while he always bothered and embarrassed them, he was a good guy with his heart in the right place, He would have understood immediately that Ryan had had no option but to take a slip and probably would have added two and two together; the origin of the inheritance from Europe and the possibility that their might still be other relatives around…across the Atlantic! Horatio and Stetler hated each other and H. had the tendency to cast the IAB sergeant always in the role of the bad guy. But Stetler wasn't. He did his job and did it well. Ryan would not have been surprised, if instead of Tripp, Rick would have called him!

When he arrived downstairs in the kitchen, the place was empty, also the good ghost, who had had the graces to provide him with clothes had also left a nice breakfast for him behind. The table on the terrace was laid, thermos with coffee, fresh croissants, fruits and everything. And the sun was warm and friendly. He dropped onto a chair, helped himself to coffee and dosed a fresh croissant liberally with butter and Claire's delicious strawberry jam. Before he could plunge the delicacy into his Café crème – an act, most Americans found completely disgusting, so Ryan refrained habitually from doing it in public – he saw his father appear from between the bushes.

"You look definitively better, son!" Padraig dropped into a chair next to Ryan's, helped himself to coffee and milk and gave his son a happy smile.

The short discussion with Erwan de Kersausson had been concluded successfully. Erwan liked his nasty little idea a lot and did not mind to help set up a mobster, who was not making mischief on the territory of France. De Kersausson had told O'Briain, that the US counterpart –the Chief of the MDPD- had been extremely receptive and was avid to get rid –at least partially- of one of his larger crime problems. Erwan was relatively certain, that he could convince the man to play along and since the MDPD chief would be able to reap the whole profit –no obligation to share with the boys in Paris- he'd probably even jump on it. Erwan would tell him, that they wanted to do this in order to find out about loopholes in their Customs Services – people who might be either blackmailed into cooperation with the mob or doing it for personal profit.

"Claire's off to work?" Ryan enquired casually with his father.

Padraig shook his head. "She just went over to organise her staff for a couple of days and take a bit of leave. Even if the occasion is not as merry as usual, when you come and see us….we want nevertheless to spend our time with you. So –besides mishaps with the Russian mob – how's going in Miami?"

Ryan gave his father a suspicious look. "May I suppose that this innocent question is related to the stuff JP told you, while I was hooked on the phone?"

It was not his habit to complain and Moulin had only learned of some of the incidents in the CrimLab and with Horatio, because he had been so mightily pissed, that his tongue had slipped over a bottle of wine. Anyhow, the stunt H. had pulled to fake his own death at the end of last year had been so incredibly dangerous –especially for all those involved and who had not been Caine himself – that he simply had to get it off his system. Horatio's downward spiral had begun to take speed, when one Kyle Harmon had surfaced, his illegitimate son with a half-mad witch –Julia Winston –conceived while working undercover some two decades earlier. The half-mad witch too had resurfaced and was putting some spice into the stew. In the meantime they had H.'s son at the Lab, working with the ME, although the boy had already quite the criminal record and was only slightly saner then his mother. And Miss Winston – or was she now Miss Saris or had she perhaps recovered her maiden name, even if maiden and this creature seemed to a contradiction in itself – was regularly winding up her ex.

Paddy chuckled. "What do you think, son?"

Ryan smiled. "When did you last ask me an innocent question?"

"All my questions are innocent, Ryan….even if I confess that this time, I may be motivated by something, you may call "fatherly concern".

Wolfe took another croissant and prepared himself another high calories treat. In Miami he was already running desperately low on Claire's homemade. They were atrocious at US Customs, when it came to foodstuff and he had to literally smuggle the jam into the country, hidden in socks or wrapped into dirty T-Shirts. He took a generous bite, gave the issue a small thought, then decided that it was time to talk and that Paddy was probably the best person in the world to confide in.

"For a while now, Papa, my boss over there has gone a bit…..crazy." He started with Marisol Delko-Caine's death by the hand of the Mala Noche and Horatio's and Eric's strange trip to Bresil.

Two hours later he ended his tale with the discovery, that Delko's biological father –Sherova – was an active member of the Russian mob and the events around Sarnoff and his henchmen. He'd told Paddy even about Horatio's former sister in law, Yelina Salas, a cop turned private investigator, and whom the lieutenant had convinced to approach the man, he supposed to be Sarnoff's Number 2; Gregor Kasparov.

"I have the feeling,.." He said softly, "…that H. is repeating it all over again…only this time it will be one of us, who'll get himself killed. They are trying to break us and H. simply takes this as a personal challenge. I have the curious feeling that all he's interested in, is proving Sarnoff, that he's wrong…even if proving it becomes a very costly challenge."

Paddy shuddered, notwithstanding the warm weather and blazing sun on the terrace.

He had done many dangerous things in his life, but he had always avoided, doing stupid things, especially stupid things that would bring other people right into harms way. He was also fully aware that his son had chosen a rather risky profession; policemen were wounded or killed in action all over the world.

When Ryan had started his university curriculum at Boston College, both Paddy and Claire had felt, that he was not studying biochemistry to become a lab rat or researcher. They had not been surprised, when he'd told them –hardly one year into his PhD- that he'd successfully applied for the Boston police Academy and would simply try and do his doctoral thesis during free time.

After the ice between them was broken, Ryan had been fascinated by Claire's job as an ME and paleo-antropologist. Often, after school and before the ferry would leave for Morgat from Brest – he'd sneaked into her lab, watching the team working through the glass windows with greedy eyes. After his baccalaureate and shortly before winning himself a full scholarship into the Jesuite-run, prestigious Boston College, well known for its excellence in the field of science, he'd managed to get himself a two-months internship with the ME at Rennes University, another of the reputed French scientific units that worked for the police forces as crime investigators.

Paddy had accepted his son's choice with good graces and also some pride. Deep inside, he'd been happy that the young man had been so much taken with his choice of a new partner in life, that he'd even follow her professional footsteps. When he had first brought Claire to Clemence's place, he'd been dead frightened, that his son might reject her, because he believed that O'Briain attempted to replace his unknown, but nonetheless glorified, deceased mother.

'Have you ever been thinking about quitting 's team or the CSI Miami, Ryan?" Paddy enquired carefully.

He knew Ryan inside out. When his son decided to tell about a situation he considered difficult of hard, before having attempted to handle it all alone, then something was indeed very, very wrong.

The boy was no complainer! Rather the contrary. Ryan was a bit too much a person who tried to cope with everything on his own and never ever asked for help, even if a situation would break him. He also had a strong tendency to be extremely hard on himself. If something went wrong, Ryan habitually found a reason – even a ridiculous one – to be the guilty party.

Paddy still remembered that stupid incident, when one of JP's girls had fallen off the highest branch of their old apple tree and broken her wrist.

Notwithstanding the fact that his son had managed to catch the girl before she hit the ground and truly hurt herself, Ryan had been completely hysterical. They had not been able to convince him, that it was impossible for a 1,80 m 71 kg bloke to remain upright when hit with a tangled mass of limbs of 1,65 m and 51 kg in free fall from a height of approximatively 3,50 m.

"I have." The younger man replied thoughtfully. " More then once. And perhaps I will. But not yet. First I want to see this through, then I will think about my life and career over there in Miami. It may not be worth it…."

**[ Author's Remark: There will be no more updates until 12****th**** June…..I am off for a couple of days, without PC and without internet access. ] **

1 Substitute of the State Attorney

2 infamous French left-wing terrorist group

3 infamous for their kidnappings and killings of German politicians and economic leaders, mainly during the chancelorship of Helmut Schmidt

4 most infamous for their killing of Advocate general Aldo Morro

5 Political extension of the IRA and as of today a highly respectable political party, just like all the others


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 22 Even More Secrets

*

Alijosha Danilenko ordered the oak-grilled beefsteak tomato and wild mushroom sauté as a starter and the Lobster Thermidor topped with a cream sauce of white wine, shalots, tarragon, mushrooms, roasted peppers and brandy sprinkled with reggiano parmigiano as main course.

Gregor Kasparov had encouraged them to test run his new menu for the upcoming summer holidays season at Miami and scrutinize quality of food and taste very thoroughly.

Nevzorov went for an extra thick blue ribbon, prime tenderloin, flash marinated and grilled tender over aromatic oakwood, the Forge's newest addition to its choice of meats, together with a pasta appetizer of genuine Italian rigatoni cooked al dente and served with a fresh primavera mix of fresh baby vegetables, garden spinach, tomatoes, roasted peppers basil and garlic.

The third man at the table was Jacob Jarovsky, their "sales manager" for arms and weaponry. Jacob was rather a fishy guy and chose from the extensive fish menu of the restaurant.

"I believe, that you will like the new Chainti Classico I found in Italy. It is absolutely glorious and worth each and every cent of its excruciatingly high acquisition prize." Kasparov joked and served them a dark red, lightly sparkling grape juice that smelled so nice, that even Valodija Nevzorov's stern features harboured a benevolent smile.

The three men spend some 20 minutes on foodstuff, wine and the Forge's famous reputation for top quality. Kasparov shepherded them through a set of very tasty antipasti, another result from his last trip to Italy and made them taste some fickly 'finger cups' of other European wines – a light rosé from the south of Germany, a flowery white from the valley of the Rhine, four French ones, all from the Loire valley and finally a Spaniard, that was so rich and full that already a gulp made you almost drunk.

They complimented the man politely on his choices for the season, assured him that Miami's rich and famous would appreciate and encouraged him to set the prices for the delicacies high….the more expensive, the better! When Gregor had disappeared into the premises, they turned to business.

"So Timofeij is doing well?" Jarovsky enquired. He had been the younger Belkin brother's sponsor in their organisation and hoped to get him off the hitmen list and into his part of the business. Timofeij was a great expert in small arms and would be a very usefull addition to his sales team.

"Very!" Replied Nevzorov. "I got an e-mail from Alexandr Rossinski, the commander of the Paris branch and he was quite impressed by our brother. Our French friends have put their dogs onto the traces of CSI Wolfe and should shortly get back to Timofeij with his location."

"What else from Rossinski?" Danielenko wanted to know. He had been the instigator of the acquisition of a set of SAGEM surveillance systems for the 'Bratstvo's" storage houses around Miami and felt rather incline to replace a command in order to also protect a recently acquired facility at the docks, where they could receive shipping's from overseas away from the prying eyes of US Customs.

"He made me some interesting offers, Alijosha. He has managed to lay hand on a small size-high precision French radar system, which could be interesting for our boats into Cuba and South America." Then turning to Jarovsky he mentioned two dozen of Ground-to-Air Missiles of the Mistral type, that Rossinski's people had bought from guys in Former Yougoslavia who were lightening their stocks to the best offering party.

Jarovsky nodded. "I'd like to have Mistrals. They are the best in their category and two of my clients would sell their grannies to get some."

"Done" Chuckled Nevzorov." And speaking of grannies, how's 'Babushka' doing?" Babushka Danilenko was the 'Bratstvo' mascot. She loved all their boys dearly and took good care of them, firmly believing that they were all good boys, who could not even kill the proverbial fly.

"She is terribly stressed!" Replied Danilenko." She has to accompany our dear Ramona to do some shopping and money spending for the new house in South Miami's Homestead Quarter and you can imagine how it is, when two girls go shopping with no upper limit."

"Ivan's a clever bastard…" Nevzorov tasted his riagtoni and nodded his approval, " 90 grand for 200 square plus dependencies is almost better an investment then Rossinski's Mistrals. Perhaps we should give up our other lines of business and turn to real estate exclusively."

Danilenko chewed his tender tomato, watered it down with a hint of Chianti and placed his knife and fork over the now empty plate. "That's how Rossinski and his boys make most of their Euros. If you see their annual review, you start to doubt that crime pays…."

The two other men howled with laughter over Danilenko joke.

"Well, getting back to business: Ramona has perfectly understood what her job is. She will keep an extremely carefull and extremely discreet eye on our friend Horatio Caine and report back to me on a daily basis. I will try and establish something like a Caine schedule based upon this. I will also buy one of these fancy telescopes for the boys and we set it up on the houses upper floor, so she can take some photographs when the two little ones are asleep."

Jarovsky chuckled. "The loves and life of one Horatio Caine….that may be interesting! By the way, I came across one Leo Rossi, a former Miami Private Investigator and now recently released from jail for incitation to murder or something and who has an edge with the Lieutenant. He offers a set of "incriminating" DVD-Roms with footage…..shall we give it a try?"

"How much?" Danilenko enquired with great interest. Whatsoever to blacken the reputation of Caine was good for him and worth some grands.

Jarovsky smiled. "Why shall we pay Alioshenka, when we can get it for free. Rossi's big mouth and not very carefull….I will agree with him upon a meeting to vision his stuff and if it is worth the while, I see him offed and we take what we need. Seems to have also stuff on that Duquene woman and Shirova's whelp."

"Wolfe?" Danilenko was very much interested now. There was a guy in Miami who had already done part of the job he intended to do. That might be a shortcut to tasty mushrooms!

"Nothing! Bloke seems to be pretty straight and boring: No debts, no running credits, no bad habits, no womanising, no good graces from the higher levels of his authorities."

Danilenko nodded. "I have realised this to, Jacob; when I sniffed him out, all I found was a steady girlfriend, who's a journalist with CBS and a bit big mouthed and career-hungry and some stuff concerning a mistake with their crime lab working protocol that brought him a very heavy punishment for the proverbial 'next to nothing'!"

"What did the whelp do to merit a whipping from his boss?" Jarovsky asked with curiosity. Rossi had simply told him concerning Wolfe, that he and one of the girls on Caine's team –Valera- where non-entities. No fun!

"Didn't tell Caine that he liked the occasional game of poker!"

"Gambling debts?"

"No, not even that. He pays them off with legal money. Has some straight-laced life insurance policy at 4,65% per year…thing a grandpa would subscribe to. Money from an inheritance his Granny left him a couple of years ago…does not even play the stock exchange. Gives him an additional monthly income of 10 grand after taxes!"

Nevzorov choked with laughter. A monthly income of 10 grands after taxes plus a CSI salary. In a town like Miami, that Wolfe bloke was almost a case for welfare aid….together with the 4000 bucks the MDPD'd give him per months, he'd hardly be able to pay his girlfriend half the toggles Ivan just threw on some anonymous one-night stand or pretty dancer in the Forge's Club after a nice show. His girls already earned double only for showing their asses and long legs and they made still a monstrous benefit with the Forge!

"Yes, my friend!" Danilenko replied with mock compassion…"That is really small change…I think, we do the boy a favour to deliver him from his misery!"

The three men continued their lavish lunch, talking business, exchanging jokes and planning their next steps against and his CSIs.

**

Commander Regine Marais gave Lieutenant Horatio Caine a familiar smile and greeted him cheerfully, when he entered the premises of the French Consulate at Miami. Then she shook hands rather more formally with the huge, broad shouldered and pleasantly looking older police officer, who accompanied him and whom Caine introduced as Sergeant Frank Tripp.

Tripp made an instant good impression on Regine. He had something about him, that made her trust the man immediately. And he had nice eyes…the eyes of a honest man!

"Well,…" She motioned her male secretary, a youngish uniformed policeman from 'Gendarmerie Nationale" that he may bring coffee and cookies."…we had quite a success in Paris. You may be surprised to learn, that our French problem, a certain Alexandr Rossinski, Russian national, naturalised citizen of France in 2003, accepted unblinking to assist our fake-mobster Commander Serge Poniatowski in his plans to murder CSI Wolfe on the soil of France." Regine gave Tripp a smile and offered gracefully to put sugar and milk into his coffee.

Frank blushed, thanked the small but very cute colleague and took his tiny cup.

He had learned beforehand that this Commander Poniatowski was an undercover agent, specialised in the Russian mob and who was actually playing the role of Timofeij Belkin, the younger brother of Dimitrij Belkin, whom Horatio had shot in his attempt to free Billy Gantry.

Caine accepted a cookie from the silver plate, the young 'gendarme' held out politely and sipped the strong, tasty coffee contently. The Chief had given him a free hand to handle the cooperation with the French. He had been talking for several hours with his French counterpart, the Prefect de Kersausson and the man had been able to convince the MDPD chief, that acting together was of mutual benefit and that getting the FBI involved would only bring harm to both their forces.

"Meaning, Commander, that now you can bring this Rossinski down on two high crimes and get him booked for at least a life sentence?" Horatio was not very familiar with the European legal system. He had quickly looked up France on the internet and understood that they had much lower penalties then Florida in particular and the USA in general.

Regine Marais nodded happily. The success of this operation would reflect upon her career, too. If she performed well, she might find herself in the front row for Washington DC or another flashy posting on the police forces diplomatic circuit. " We have also been able to identify a very soft spot inside our Customs, which is already worth most of our efforts. A precious catch, so to say. It was not just a lowly executive, but a ranker who accepted money from the Russian mob for his good services. At the moment, we decided to let him run, since we intend to use him in the rest of our master plan."

"And which is?" Frank Tripp enquired. He did not really care about what would happen in France. His business was Miami. But he wanted to talk to Regine. She was absolutely gorgeous; clever, tough as nails, witty and …she had beautiful eyes. They were like hazelnuts! A soft, comforting and warm brown that went excessively well with her beautiful chocolate coloured hair. Frank was waiting for an answer, staring at her and imagining what she'd look like, if she'd let that shiny hair out of its strict bun….a dark angel probably!

Regine instantly turned from Horatio , whom she found a bit stiff, boring and too American to her taste to the other police officer. He was most charming and very polite, so she was happy to please him and her authorities had not instructed her to play secrecy.

" Sergeant Tripp, " she explained in a gentle voice, "…we are going to set them up. We want to be rid of them. The make too much mischief. We will try and entangle them in an illegal arms deal. We learned from secure sources, that Alexandr Rossinski got hold of some French military hardware that was stolen from our armed forces a couple of years ago and which we want back very badly! We believe, that your "Miami problem" Ivan Sarnoff would be enchanted to buy these "things" and we trust you, that you will restitute everything to us, once the operation has been concluded successfully!"

Frank nodded happily. He had not understood a single word. Commander Marais spoke in riddles, but she had the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen on a woman and he was willing to listen to whatever bullshit, as long as she would look right into his eyes.

Horatio Caine got the message immediately. He nodded. Commander Marais was a tough and clever woman. She had said it all without saying a word. "Ok with me, Regine! You have a deal."

Commander Marais took the offered hand. "If I may, Horatio! Perhaps you should be a bit careful about coming here etc. We know that the Ismayilovskaya is rather good in intelligence gathering and habitually has its eyes everywhere. Considering what we know, you may be under surveillance…"

"I have been thinking of it!" Caine replied in his habitual down-to-business voice. "This was also the reason, why I brought Sergeant Tripp with me. I think he should be our liaison for the time being. He is probably less in the line of fire then I and my CSIs…"

Regine nodded. That was an excellent solution. She would enjoy working with Frank Tripp. And it would be easier to give the nice sergeant a honest smile then to pretend with Caine..…Regine had been to -Commissaire, the French police academy, together with both Francois Delveaux and JP Moulin and she had not hesitated to call JP in private, when she'd received first orders from Paris. And from what Moulin had told her under the veil of trust and friendship, she simply could not like Horatio: They had their own lot of cold-hearted bastards in the French police forces and she had had bosses like Caine in the past. A superior who'd sacrifice his subordinate just for the fun of it was simply not her cup of tea, even if the man seemed to be highly competent and a good professional. Rather work with some good old copper with morals and a heart then with this high-flying, career-oriented and evasive CSI boss.

***

Claire had been surprised to find the Alpha-Wolf and the cub peacefully in her garden. Both had settled in the grass. The Alpha with a wicker basket, Ryan with a plastic bowl from her kitchen. Paddy seemed to make good progress on the raspberries. The basket looked rather full, while Ryan absorbed most of his harvest directly, without intermediate processing.

Claire smiled. From her studies and long-term observation she knew, that the surviving shaggy Ice Age predator was not only keen on raw, fresh meats, but also on berries and other sweeter goodies that nature would provide during the seasons. But she had somehow expected that Ryan had grown out of stealing fruit directly from the bushes at age 32!

"So you do not want a cake tonight!" She called her guys happily.

Ryan's head turned around immediately. His eyes were guilty, his hands had a nice colour of red and ripe. Paddy just lifted his basket. "It is almost full, dear!" He replied cheerfully. "And I have cleaned your kitchen….so you can get to work immediately. We are starving!"

Claire chuckled softly when she saw Ryan clean his guilty fingers on his trousers. He was a nightmare! It was almost impossible to get raspberry juice out of cotton. The wolf cub looked slightly more healthy and cheerful then the night before. His face was less strained and the dark shadow under his eyes seemed gone. Only the fact that Ryan had splendid five-o'clock shadows suggested, that his face and jaw probably still hurt like hell. Claire decided that she'd bully him out of his shirt and ridden him of those infamous stitches….Even if she would not have known that one of his closest friends in Miami -Marc Gantry- was a vet, she'd have deduced it from the stitching. Only vets were mad enough to try and fix shit that could not be fixed any longer. But who cared about scars on horses or cows!

She was rather proud of Paddy. The bugger had been sensitive enough to not bother his son and drag him only along for some health-enhancing past times: Sitting in the sun and nibbling raspberries was ok in Ryan's state. As long, as her step-son did not move too much or try and make physical efforts everything was fine with Claire. She had absolutely no intention of driving him to the ER at three in the morning with breathing problems that resembled pneumothorax.

"You found my nice little breakfast?" She asked, walking over to the boys and placing a caring hand on Ryan's shoulder. He did not flinch from her touch, which was a good sign.

He gave her a smile. "Thanks, Claire! That was nice. And I loved your strawberry jam."

She bend down and gave him a gentle kiss. "Whatever you like, sweet! How do you feel?"

The words had been too softly spoken for Paddy to understand. Anyhow, the Alpha-Wolfe was already trotting towards the kitchen with his basket ignoring her bonding with the cub. Paddy was a basic male; mostly stomach on two legs!

"I feel like shit, Claire!" Ryan confessed softly. "I have more colours then a naïve wood painting from Ecuador!"

"Hush!" Claire replied. "That will go away in a couple of days." She sat on the grass next to Ryan and put her arm around his shoulders….very carefully, not to hurt him." We are going to have a nice lunch, then I will take care of this and I pull your stitches…." She passed her hand softly through his short cut hair and over his face. "Can you draw breath?"

Wolfe shrugged his shoulders. He could not, as a matter of fact. He was basically sitting in the grass and nibbling raspberries like a child, because he had not to take the decision to draw breath for good and he simply had not the courage to confront the pain of doing so.

Claire was rather the diplomat of the family. She understood without words, what Ryan tried to tell her. He wanted to go out with JP and Delveaux and that Poniatowski bloke. He wanted to do whatever was necessary to get rid of his "Russian problem" and continue with his life…..but his body refused to obey. She placed her hand protectively over his head and pulled the younger O'Briain against her slim shoulder. Part of Claire understood him perfectly well. She had been living with his father through 15 years of Russian mob! Another part of her – the MD- understood that Ryan did not have the strength to fight at this moment. He was breathing heavily, like an old draught horse with an emphysema. And even for a warm, French early summer day his skin was too hot…a bout of fever! Nothing dramatic, but together with what she knew about his last few days simply…a bit too much. She took his hand and helped him up, then shepherded him over to the terrace and into a comfortably "chaise longue" with soft cushions. First he resisted, but then he allowed her to push him into the cushions.

"You stay here, dear.." She said softly, " …and close your eyes for a while. I'll weak you, when lunch is ready!" Claire pulled a cotton blanket over Ryan and left for the kitchen.

****

Serge Poniatowski gave his new lodgings a cursory glance. The mob had been investing money in real estate for the last 15 years and he was hardly surprised. They bought only good stuff that would take more value over the years. Since 1995, the Soviet and Russian mob had been spending billions on French real estate. He smiled, when he realised that his safe house had a wonderful view over Montmartre. About 10.000 € per square metre and even if you had the money, it was not easy to find the flat to buy! This was Paris most touristy quarter: No normal Frenchman would ever even try to love her!

He flipped his second cell open and dialled Delveaux's number. Two minutes later his colleagues knew the address and would see to it that experts would discreetly bug the flat, while he went off "for lunch". He was now on his own. Nobody would make contact with him. His only ways back into the fold where either success or the emergency panic button on the BlackBerry. Poniatowsky opened the real Belkin's briefcase and gave the credit cards a glance. He knew the secret codes of both. He'd have lunch and do some shopping…just to give the Miami dudes the impression that their man was doing something. His people could in the meantime hack Rossinski's IT system, find out interesting stuff, malignance with the MDPD and think. He'd just buy them time and appear…credible….!

****

Francois Delveaux closed his cell. They knew exactly where Poniatowski was and the undercover agent had nothing to do but buy time and give the impression of being a Russian mobster from Miami.

The surveillance in front of Rossinski's office was in place and would work 24/24 and 7/7 until they had the bugger inside and his shop closed down for good. He decided to pick up Moulin, get the OK from de Kersausson and then go to Saint Nom La Breteche and see if their US colleague Ryan Wolfe was already up for mischief…..even if he was not: It would be a good idea to tell him what was going on and how things evolved. They had to plan a spectacular showdown that would make the front pages of the international editions of 'Le Figaro' and 'Le Monde'….good enough to feature right under the latest decisions of Président Sarkozy, the out comings of President Barak Obama's visits to Europe during the celebrations of D-Day in Normandy and the latest results of the Paris Stock Exchange. They had to do well, since that AirFrance Airbus, who'd mysteriously disintegrated during a return flight from Rio was still making front pages.

Delveaux had already an idea, but he needed to cross-check it with his superiors and the analysts who were still working on the IT-bounty from Miami.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 23 Setting the Trap**

*

Ivan Sarnoff sat all by himself on a sunny spot in the prison yard, where they'd allow them to spend their days, when it was too hot to keep them inside the cells. He turned another page of Boris Akunin's high-flying thriller "The Winter Queen"-"Azazel", a book that had been nominated even for the British Dagger Award in Crime Fiction.

Babushka habitually chose good books for him. She had kind of a flair for what would take his brains off BunkerHill and his other troubles. Akunin, whose real name was Grigory Shalvovich Chkhartishvilin wrote not only thrillers that were worth being read but also a chronicle on Japanese literature, Ivan had enjoyed reading when still free in his movements and pasttimes.

He put a reading mark into the book, closed it carefully and turned his eyes towards the evening sun. Thanks to the discreet cellphone, Ramona had managed to get into the prison, he had done a honorable day's work. Ramona's new house and all conveniences going with it had been quickly handled. It was his money, not the 'Bratstvo's' and nobody would ever ask him to account for it. Besides he'd managed to make a rather good deal with his French counterpart Alexandr Rossinski over some Ground-to-Air missiles of interest to several drug corporations on Central America.

He was rather favourable to sell the stuff off to the Columbians. They paid well for quality and never troubled him afterwards…Ivan shook his head: Once he'd sold some hardware directly from the ex-Soviet Union to a cartel in Panama and these buggers had had the cheek to ask him for maintenance of the stuff….as if ever an illegal dealer in military equipment would have provided any kind of maintenance contract to an illegal buyer of said equipment!

Ever since Pineapple Noriega the Panameans had been a bit over the edge! He'd solved that problem by drowning the last intermediary in provenance from Panama City within the groundworks of a residence at Corral Gables their construction company was building for some rich bloke. He had felt like Al Capone, right in the 1930ies after this….

Ivan stood up and walked over lazily to a group of his men. One of them – Petja Kamarov- would be out within the next 48 hours. He was small change and of no importance to the 'Bratstvo' and he was only in Bunker Hill for petty theft. But he was good enough to carry a message to Danilenko and Nevzorov! Ivan Sarnoff had been ok with the Mistral Ground to Air, Jarovsky wanted so desperately for his Columbian client. But he was rather more enthusiastic about the other offer from Paris: These small-size, high-performance raders were really a deal. He did not intend to equip their boats between Miami and Cuba with these fancy toys. He could not care less if one or another of these boats were occasionally caught and grounded by US Customs. He had been thinking about something completely different…something that might mightily embarrass his sworn archenemy Lieutenant Horatio Caine and the entire MDPD! Some tiny little radars together with a pretty set of Mistral ground to Air….all for himself!

Ivan liked Alijosha Danilenko's machiavellistic plan to take cruel vengeance upon Caine and his CSIs and he was thoroughly enjoying Step One and the actual, ongoing "Wolfe Hunt", but he desired something more visible….something that would not only show the Lieutenant and his pack with whom they had taken up a fight….and ground-to-air missiles of the Mistral type linked with high-tech radar systems were frightful weapons…especially against flying targets, like the recce helicopters of the MDPD would be quite a show….

**

Horatio Caine had left Frank Tripp together with the French police woman Regine Marais. It was a good idea to allow these two to familiarize with each other and the different working styles of their law enforcment organisations.

He was convinced that Frank would do a marvelous job as liason with the French. The old copper had the sharp wits, takt and an unfailing feeling for necessary action. He could also be trusted to keep the whole business as low level and discreet as possible.

He drow over to the Miami premises of the U.S. Treasury, hoping to get hold of Special Agent Peter Eliott and convey to him the part of the French bounty, they could not exploit directly. Horatio understood completely what Commander Regine Marais explained concerning the whole 'Bratstvo' business in real estate fraud. Already the history with the boat slids hat put a flea to his ear, but they had been too much entangled with the three homicides to even consider the other details of their prime suspect's criminal activity.

Horatio took his time on the way to the Treasury premises. He was considering his options with Eliott, especially what deal he could strike with the IRS and that would profit his lab. He could either come up with some request immediately or just give away the evidence and cash in later on the gracious gift!

Unsurprisingly, Peter was in his office. While occasionally out in the field and in for some action, most of the IRS work was closely linked to papers and financial analysis. Horatio took the leisure to observe Eliott for a while. The man was bend over something that looked like the printout of an analytic table, rubbing his tired eyes with the knuckles of both hands and giving a deep, rather desperate sigh. It did not look as if the special agent was finding what he wished to see on the paper snake. The CSI boss knocked softly at the open glass door to drag Special Agent Eliott from his seemingly hopeless situation.

"Would you care for a break and a cup of coffee?" He suggested.

Special Agent Eliott gave Horatio a happy smile: Also it was completely out of character for Caine to just drop by the IRS premises and ask a buddy to go out lunching, Peter was more then willing to abandon his analytical tables for a bit. He had been trying to figure out for the last three days, if the rather sophisticate bookkeeping schemes of a fashionable private dental clinique in Downtown Miami were out of bounds and to be considered tax fraud, but had not yet come to a conclusion. Everything was very well done and very tricky…

"H., you just save me!" He replied cheerfully, taking his documents off his table and securing them in a drawer, which he then closed carefully with a small key. "Let's go down to the cafeteria!"

The two men found themselves a table in a small alcove away from prying eyes and Horatio went off to buy the promissed coffee and a plate with assorted sandwiches. Peter Eliott, in the meantime, was looking with great curiosity upon an implement Caine had brought and which was as much out of character with the CIS Lieutenant as the whole 'Invite you for a drink'-thing: A dark brown leather briefcase….a rather heavy looking leather briefcase for that.

Six coffees and three hours later, Eliott's curiosity was satisfied. The Treasury agent was going to the documents Horatio Caine had brought like a child through its gifts under a Christmas tree, his eyes gleaming greedily, as he turned the pages.

"That is…." He almost chocked on his short sentence, not even taking his eyes of the papers to speak to Horatio,"…absolutely incredible! They have managed to run this scheme with an offshore company and then simply forget, that at the level of the notarial act –offshore or not- they are liable to pay Florida taxes on the surplus beyond 25% of a property's estimate worth! This is….completely stupid."

Horatio nodded. When Regine Marais had explained the real estate fraud, he'd also been slightly surprised to see Sarnoff make such a basic mistake within the confines of a very cleverly set up business. He wondered, if the IRS investigation would turn out some bodies to be processed by the CSI Crime Lab…..the bodies of the Miami lawyers, Ivan's offshore had hired to work the real estate deals. It was a possibility he had to tackle with Peter Eliott, too before handing the French bounty completely over to the colleagues from the Treasury. But first he had some explaining to do.

"Listen Peter, we got this from the French Police – namely the Organised Crime Unit of the Paris District Police – who accidentally stumbled over it when checking out a suspect. While they questionned the suspect, their CrimLab ran analysis on his BlackBerry and somehow managed to hook right into an IT network that had been set up for Ivan Sarnoff's Miami branch of the Russian mob." Horatio had been mulling the subject over and discussed it with the Paris Prefect De Kersausson beforehand. Telling the others, that the Paris CSI and CrimLab found the evidence linked with Sarnoff and simply handed it over to their Miami CSI and CrimLab counterpart seemed credible enough. The Europeans, considering the evidence to be irrelevant for the federal police, but interesting at the local level, since it was real estate tax related, would probably take the shortcut to just give it to a direct counterpart, hoping the counterpart would know exactly whom to involve at the local level. And his story worked out right!

"What do they want in exchange?" Special Agent Eliott enquired.

"A bit of assistance in grounding one of the Russian mob, with whom they have problems in Paris and who shipped off some stuff, that's illegal in France but legal in the US to our mobsters. No big thing really! The MDPD Chief has alredy cut the deal with his counterpart in Paris."

"Well,…" Peter Eliott gave Horatio Caine a broad smile, "…you say thanks to the Paris CSI from Miami's IRS. We appreciate their gift and I shall see to it, that we squeeze the Miami branch of that mob like Florida Juice Oranges. You know, Al Capone went down for tax fraud too, and this is perhaps better then nothing! I am always surprised to see how painful it is for people to be separated from their money….as if they were loosing some beloved relative!"

Caine gave Eliott a rare smile. "You say it Peter! Keep me posted please and…..be careful with the lawyers who have created this mess. I do not care to have several gruesome bodies down at the morgue of the Lab and my CSIs running havoc all over Miami to find out who cut the legal beagles to pieces…!"

"Will do, H.!" Eliott replied cheerfully. He was tremendously keen to take that huge and heavy leather briefcase up to the third floor and into the bosses office. This was blessed ground for the treasury and they'd joyfully walk on it and reap a nice harvest for Uncle Sam's bank account.

***

Commandant Francois Delveaux had a team of six highly experienced police officers on Alexandr Rossinski. Three more and the Russian translator were hunched inside the surveillance vehicle on the Avenue Foch, right in front of Rossinski's company's headquarters. They had mobilised another eight officers from Jean Paul Moulin's RAID team. These men were on call and would go wherever required, as soon as the surveillance vehicle would inform them about whatsoever interaction between Rossinski and his soldiery. Another officer, a female expert sleuth – Pauline Lamperière - hovered in the disguise of a hooker close by the place where Poniatowski was staying as Tim Belkin, waiting for his next contact with Rossinski. Serge had not been informed that he had a shadow for protection and the "hooker with the police ID" had formal orders to not intervene, no matter what happened. She was only to contact the HQ and report.

Delveaux himself was working the rougue Customs offical, they had caught so easily following the first encounter of Poniatowski and Rossinski. The man was sweating and fidgeting in his chair at the Custums Headquarters of the Charles de Gaulles Airport. Delveaux had presented him with crushing evidence and a subtle choice: He could either take the risk and play along or lose his job and go to prison for two years. Two years was not a heavy penalty, and on proper conduct, the man would be out after 12 months on probation, but Delveaux had taken upon himself to describe what happened inside penitaries like Fresnes that were completely saturated with prisoners and had four people instead of one to a 9 square meters cell….promiscuity, violence between inmates, rape….The Customs official, slightly overweight and soft looking was exactly the guy, hardened criminals would target immediately, if he went into Fresnes!

"But they will hurt me and my family if ever they find out that I helped you…" The man replied. His was clearly panicking. The veins on his temples were throbbing painfully and a slick stream of sweat run down his neck and into the collar of his shirt.

Delveaux crossed his long legs and gave the Customs official a hard, uncompromissing look. "Then you better be careful! Play it well and you shall get out of this alive and kicking and I will put in a good word for you with your superiors! At 58 years of age, pre-retirement on about 70 % of your pension seems better to me then 24 months in Frenes and no pension at all, should you ever manage to leave the prison alive.."

They would not do such a thing to that poor bugger. Francois knew, that worst case, the guy'd get a kick in the ass and no pension, but without any criminal record and 35 years of honorable services to France, the punishment would be light for this type of white collar crime.

France had relatively few prisons and the few they had were already overrun with real criminals. Bad guys who'd done real harm to real people. Tribunals were as overburdened as prisons and most judges would simply condemn the guy, then let him go on probation: He'd killed nobody, raped nobody, done no bodily harm to anybody and would not be considered dangerous to his fellow citizens.

But fortunately the Customs official did not seem aware of this fact! He cowered and accepted Delveaux's terms.

The commanding officer of the Organised Crime Unit instructed the slug carefully and reminded him, that he was not only watched by his Russian friends but also by his new friends from law and order.

****

Claire watched Ryan sleep peacefully under her soft cotton blanket on the terrace. He looked so desperately young and fragile in his sleep that it almost broke her heart to weak him for lunch and the two uninvited guests who'd presented themselves just in time for melon with ham, green buttered asparagus, salad, cheese and raspberry tart at Saint Nom. She settled down gently by Ryan's side.

Unable to have children of her own for medical reasons, she'd adopted him together with Paddy immediately some 15 years ago. He had been a sweet teenager; gentle, well bred and good natured and after an initial short phase of distrust and fear, he'd taken to her wholeheartedly and adopted her for the mother he never had had. And while he had grown from a teenager into a man over time, he had never changed his attitude towards her.

She placed her hand softly onto his cheek. Ryan definitively felt like a hedgehog with almost four days worth of five o'clock shadows, but he looked rather better and felt slightly cooler then a bit earlier today. She decided, that instead of telling of JP and Delveaux, she'd put two more plates onto the table and invite the rascals to stay.

"Ryan,… " she said gently, caressing his cheek.

*****

Erwan de Kersausson dismissed the supervisor, who had reported to him on the progress mad with the Russian mobster Belkin. He called his secretary for some fresh coffee and settled down comfortably with the interrogation transcriptions.

While de Kersausson had been expecting the man to be rather open and straightforward, considering the rather lavish offer, they had made to him in exchange for his insider informations on the Ismaiylovskaya, he had not expected the man to be so open and straightforward: Belkin had been already transferred from the holding premises into a comfortable and cosy safe house on the outskirts of Paris and the renewed visual and accoustic stimuli may have accelerated his need to confess. De Kersausson was slightly surprised, that the Miami branch of the Ismaiylovskaya had been creating such an extricate plot just in order to get at this Lieutenant Caine and Ryan Wolfe's colleagues.

He thanked his secretary for the coffee and asked her to call in his two most ancient and trusted Divisionnaires1.

Two hours and a thorough brainstorming later, Prefect de Kersausson had made up his mind: They would be obliged to slightly adapt their plans to the new circumstances and Padraig O'Briain's son would probably change sex and buy himself an airticket to the Kerguelen Island close to in the middle of nowhere to escape this project….but apart these two minor inconveniences, the overall idea looked fine to him.

Padraig O'Briain had called him early this morning, informing him that the Russians had managed to buy literally the entire leftover Mistral stocks from the Serbs in former Yougoslavia and were very keen to sell them at a nice price to the best bidder. He had also told him, that his trusted source in Moscow was relatively certain, that they would try to sell them off to one of the Central American drug cartels via the Miami branch of the mob. And his country wanted their military hardware back most desperately. The Mistrals had been stolen some ten years earlier from a French storage facility and trafficked into a bloody civil war in the Balkans. They had found the trace of their ground to air missiles thanks to the snapshots of a French war correspondent in the Balkans but had been – as of now- unsucessful in getting them back.

And de Kersausson knew, that his people were a little bit more tense over the lost Mistrals, then the Americans over the lost Stingers in Afghanistan. It was probably easiest to somehow encourage Rossinski to ship the hardware off to the US, lose one of the missiles to the Americans and hopefully recovering the rest of the dirty dozen courtesy Miami MDPD. Anyhow, it was less risky for their country to see the sophisticate ground-to-air missiles disappear in a CIA-sponsored research facility in El Paso then to face them on the killing grounds of Afghanistan, where their soldiers were posted together with the coallition forces of the NATO countries. He gave his telephone a loathsome glance, accepted, that the next phonecall could not be avoided, dialled the number of his correspondent at the French MoD and waited for the man's secretary to put him through.

When a familiar voice answered on the other side of the line, de Kersausson did not spend too much time with explanations and politeness. He came straight to the heart of the matter.

"I believe, we found your missing Mistrals, General! " He said softly, " And we may have an idea, how to recover them, without too much of a turmoil…."

Hardly an hour later, Prefect Erwan de Kersausson had concluded his business with the military, instructed his secretary to book him onto the next flight to Miami, called his superiors at the Ministry of the Interior to get their green light and told his wife that she should not expect him back home before the next weekend.

He rubbed his well-manicured hands contently, waited for his car and his driver to arrive and decided, that he'd be better of doing some work on the terrain then to sit and rot in his lavish office.

*****

Alexandr Rossinski smiled. " I believe that you better take care of this issue immediately!" He told the man on the other side of the phone line, "…or else your superiors will be enchanted to learn that you not only took our money, but also provided a set of end user certificates for naval radar systems that were most definitively not destined to the Australian Coast Guards!" He lightened another Benson&Hedges with his silver and laquer Ronson, drew a deep breath and continued. "….and I do not care what you tell your friends in the Air and Boarders police and how you manage to find out, what I ask of you, but tomorrow morning at 9:00 I shall have my reply or else you will find yourself in big trouble…."

When his counterpart at Airport Charles de Gaulle winced and squealed into the receiver, Rossinski gave a content nod. He knew that the customs official, they had corrupted so skillfully, would obey and provide them with the required informations concerning CSI Ryan Wolfe's whereabouts on the soil of France.

Even if the man had travelled with a European Union passport – a possibility Rossonski did not exclude due to the information from Belkin concerning his speedy crossing of the French boarder – the French Police of Air and Boarders would have nonetheless scanned the document. It was not impossible that a citizen of the US had a second European passport. Americans could hold dual citizenship with France without any problems, but also with the UK, Irland or Italy. Neither of these double nationalities would prevent them from working in the police forces or government agencies. And more often then not the US would not even be aware of the second passport. Rossinski supposed that CSI Wolfe was such a double national!

He passed a quick phonecall to Tim Belkin, informing him that he could enjoy himself for another 24 hours and that they were hard on the heels of his target. It would not be long before they could tell him where he would find this cop Wolfe from Miami and then they would figure out together, how to make him disappear discreetly.

When he placed the receiver on the telephone, the Russian translator in the surveillance car on Avenue Foch gave a tumbs up to the police officer from Organised Crime who kept him company. While the tiny listening device placed by Commander Belkin was not transmitting wonderful quality, it was more then sufficient to keep track on the mischief of the Paris Branch of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo. Other the incriminating phonecall to a corrupt french customs official, the tiny little bug had already given them the names of several of Rossinski's business associates and a fair idea concerning the time schedul of the mobster himself.

1 High-ranking French police officers


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 24 Between a Rock and a Hard Stone

*****

Aliosha Danilenko was back at his company headquarters after the rather lavish luncheon with Nevzorov and Jarovsky. He liked Jacob's idea to give that PI Leo Rossi's CSI Files a closer scrutiny, even if he did not approve of killing the rogue in order to lay hand on the incriminating information concerning Caine and some members of his team.

He decided to give Nevzorov a short call and advise him to forbid Jarovsky to kill that PI. He might be more useful alive then dead in the future and they had sufficient financial resources to afford top class intelligence. While Danilenko approved of Ivan Sarnoff and loved him like a father, he was rather of the opinion that their organisation would do better, if they'd distance themselves as soon as possible from acts of violence and reorient themselves to more profitable, less visible and white-collar criminal activities. He'd been very fond of that real estate fraud with the boat slips in Miami's most lavish marinas and had been slightly upset, when Ivan had compromised it by beating Nathan Madden to death, dropping his bloody body into a dustbin next door to the Aegaen Fighting Club and thus bringing Caine and his team onto the plan! Now it where Caine and his CSIs who were making their lives difficult.

Danilenko gave the set of gloves with the reproduction of CSI Wolfe's full set of fingerprints a thoughtful glance. They were ready, together with his service side arm and could be used at any moment, as soon as Timofeij Belkin had solved the issue over in France.

In the meantime, waiting for Belkin's reporting back from a hopefully successful mission, it would perhaps be a good idea to spend his time in a productive manner and bring a first grain of discord and strife into the remaining team of Horatio Caine. Fortunately not everybody in this Crime Lab was incorruptible and beyond reasons for doubt and beyond the little mole, he had inside the lab he had also incidentally hired a man, who had been an integral part of Caine's team for years, before getting himself fired on a charge of credit card fraud and usurpation of identity.

Danilenko had not hired Dan Cooper on purpose. It had more been an accident, already time before Horatio Caine had first stepped on the toes of the Ismyaiylovskaya's Miami branch. Cooper, the jobless and a bit desperate after a rather rough run in with his former colleagues over a practical and very dangerous internet joke he had played on CSI Dusquene, had applied for a programmer's job in Danilenko's company and Danilenko's Human Resources Manager had found the ex-lab technician's CV rather exciting.

Cooper –most certainly- was not aware of the fact for whom he worked and whose money paid his weekly salary and Danilenko rather preferred to keep it like that, but he wanted nonetheless to exploit the man's knowledge of the internal structures of the CSI. He called up Coopers HM file on his computer and went through the info. The guy performed well. He was a clever IT wiz and did a great programming job on their project with the US MoD. It would not look suspicious if he'd call the man into his office, putting the lure of promotion and better money in front of him and then take him out for a drink "to discuss the details" and ….press him like a lemon for info.

Human Resources had noted in Cooper's file that the man had a tendency to being very chatty and something of a rumour monger with his working colleagues. This together with the practical internet joke on CSI Dusquene some two years ago indicated to Aliosha, that the man would talk in order to make himself interesting and important. He rang his secretary and quickly instructed her to find Cooper and send him upstairs.

Hardly an hour later, when they headed towards a bar at Miami Beach, Danilenko knew that he had been right in his appreciation of former MDPD CrimLab technician Dan Cooper. All it had taken to make the guy literally spill out "secrets" and tell the life stories of all his former colleagues including confirmed and unconfirmed rumours and juicy details was the suggestion that it could be a good idea to try and develop a scientific police program based upon the facial reconnaissance program they were developing for the MoD and that he -Danilenko- was considering making Cooper the new Program Manager together with a promotion and salary rise!

Already in his office, Aliosha had learned several very spicy facts concerning CSI Dusquene and her father – lawyer Kenwall "Duke" Dusquene. Duke was obviously not only a notorious drinker but also had had several serious run ins with the law for driving in a state of inebriety.

Once –according to Cooper- "Duke" Duquesne had even been suspect in a gory homicide. CSI Dusquene's old man had shown up at the CSI offices firmly convinced that he might have killed someone when he was in his car. Caine had helped his little favourite immediately, launching all the lab's resources to figure out the puzzle and try to innocent Calleighs father. This close run thing obviously had not sobered up "Duke" Dusquene and according to Cooper he still had his habit and liked to go to a certain bar in Miami to indulge in Whisky and other strong brewages.

Aliosha had the strange feeling, that it would put a lot of spice into the Miami CrimeLab and the remainder of Horatio Caine's team minus the Wolfe in Sheep's Clothing, who was actually running from Tim Belkin, if "Duke" Dusquene would turn up once again, convinced to have committed a homicide with his car after a nightly drinking orgy. Such a show would be relatively easy to set up –without hurting or killing someone – and could be highly entertaining to watch.

He bought Cooper a couple of drinks, listened to the rest of his CSI gossip, congratulated the man to his promotion and their new common project and finally disappeared into the night –leaving a rather inebriate Dan Cooper behind – in order to set some things for Calleigh and Kenwall Dusquene into motion.

For the show had to go on…until they could do some nastier things to and his little pack.

**

O'Briain was not surprised when he saw the black Renault Laguna of Prefect Erwan de Kersausson drawing into their drive way. Before rising up to one of the highest positions in the French Police Forces, Erwan had been a real cop and done years and years of field work.

The man who left his service vehicle and came over to their lunch table once again resembled that copper, Paddy had first met and befriended twenty years ago and under very sinister circumstances. O'Briain did not doubt in the slightest, that the energy and spring in de Kersausson's step and the malicious smile over his habitually stern and serious face were closely related to their earlier little telephone conference and the information he had given his friend and protector. Valodija Tiomkin had already confirmed the quantity of the Mistrals and Padraig knew, that they were offered for sales via the Paris branch of the Ismaiylovskaya.

This confirmation brought probably an entirely new perspective to their business with the mob.

Claire gave the prefect a friendly smile, motioned him over to their table and hurried into the kitchen to get another plate, glass and knife and fork for the unexpected visitor. She was rather satisfied with the positive change his little nap and the news from Moulin and Delveaux together with her tasty food had wrought on Ryan. Even more first hand information and the feeling of being kept involved would rather keep him quite and cosy at home then make him take his French badge and the Glock and try going out with the guys.

***

"I think…" Delveaux concluded his long explanations, "..that your problem with the mob and your decision to come and see us for help was about the cleverest thing you could have done, Ryan!"

Wolfe swallowed his last butter crusted green asparagus with a slight air of regret, watering it down with the last drop of the delicious, ice-cold sparkling Saumur, Paddy had sacrificed from his extensive collection of Loire wines and placed his knife and fork on the now empty plate. " At least, it was worth it!" He said with a twitch of dark humour in his voice. Also he would most certainly not volunteer for another 12-hours encounter with some sadistic brute from Russia, he considered his considerable collection of colourful haematomas, welts and broken bones a rather low price for the benefits, they were now able to reap on both sides of the Atlantic. He turned to de Kersausson, who was still having a full plate of Claire's delicious butter crusted asparagus and tiny salted potatoes and was tucking in happily.

"And you really managed to make that Belkin guy crack?" The news, that the Paris police Prefect had announced a bit earlier during their luncheon had come as a great surprise to Wolfe. He still remembered that other Russian mobster at Marc Gantry's, who had not hesitated one second to kill himself, when Horatio saw his mob tattoo and stated the fact aloud.

De Kersausson nodded. "There is nothing worse then complete isolation and people who do not do, what you expect them to do, Ryan. It may be the most cruel and most efficient way of breaking a man….but it is legal. He agreed to cooperate with us completely and as we speak, he is in our safe house at Fontainebleau, spilling out all the secrets of Mr. Sarnoff's Miami organisation to my interrogators. We offered him a new identity and a new life in exchange….easy, since he did not commit any crime in France."

"So what are we going to do now." Ryan enquired.

De Kersausson smiled. "We are going to change our initial plans slightly….if you agree." What he had learned from the interrogators together with Padraig's intelligence concerning the stolen French Mistrals that were up for sale now had given him an exciting idea. But the idea was perhaps a little bit more dangerous for the young man in front of him, then what they had initially in mind. He would first tell Wolfe about his discussions with his people over in the States at MDPD. Then he'd nudge the young police officer gently towards the "other" possibility to get rid of Sarnoff and the hit on his head. While Padraig's case with Oleg Ivanov was hopeless –Ivanov sitting far away in Moscow and being surrounded by his entire soldiery and even out of reach for the law enforcement of the Russian Federation – Ivan Sarnoff was at this moment an inmate of a US Detention Facility and rather in a vulnerable position.

He had already had a long discussion via teleconferencing with their legal attaché at Miami's French Consulate, Commander Marais and the MDPD police officer who obviously ensured the liaison with the American colleagues – detective Frank Tripp. Regine had been enthusiastic and Tripp, while initially a bit sceptical had ended up accepting his idea as a potentially good plan, too and agreed to bring it up with Caine.

Ryan Wolfe smiled and rose an eye brow into an impressive high arch. "If I agree to what….?" He was no dunce and seeing an officer of de Kersausson's rank playing cat and mouse made his bullshit detectors going off and his adrenaline level go to unexpected heights. The rush of adrenaline was wonderful. It worked better then the lousy Ibuprofen 1000 mg on his killer ribs. He felt suddenly able to breath and got the impression that even a cross country would be within the reach of the possible.

O'Briain frowned, when he saw his son suddenly so excited and de Kersausson so cheerful. He knew both men pretty well. "If he agrees to what, Erwan?" he enquired in a dark voice.

De Kersausson served himself more sparkling Saumur. Paddy's wine cellar had always been excellent and he would not deny himself this threat at such a decisive moment. "Well, Padraig….turn bad cop for the show! The French MoD wants their Mistrals back, Ryan wants to get rid of Sarnoff and I want Rossinski's business shut down for good….and all it needs to achieve our common goals is….a bad cop!"

Delveaux and Moulin swallowed. Both men looking slightly dazzled. They had been working their lines with Rossinski and Poniatowski since daybreak and had not been prior to the evolution with the real Belkin. They were still at the point, where Rossinski had agreed to assist a man in his plans to murder another man in front of a microphone and they were already more then happy to have the Russian mobster's words engraved in stone….or rather on the tape in the Organised Crime Unit surveillance van on Avenue Foch.

Ryan wanted to speak, but his father snatched his forearm hard and squeezed it mercilessly. "You shut up for the moment, boy!" He snarled at the younger man, his blue eyes having turned suddenly into dark storm clouds. "What…"He pronounced every word hard and clear, "..do you intend to suggest to Ryan?"

Erwan de Kersausson had known the former IRA Intelligence Chief for two decades and no gnarling and snarling of Padraig's could impress him. He had seen the man kill without mercy or a second thought and negotiate with even less retinue or scruples. He knew that Padraig was the most honest person he had met in his lifetime, even if his political convictions were discussable and his means to achieve his aims not always legal by French police standards. But politics had always been a most dirty business and de Kersausson was capable to accept this fact. So he would play it straight and honest with Padraig…as always.

"Listen, you –better then anyone else around this table – know the rules of the Ismaiylovskaya! You and I, we both know, that it is impossible to finish them off for good, as long as the Russians do not get rid of Oleg Ivanov himself…and this is….if you ask me…a lost cause. Ivanov has friends in high places and hands out money at a political level, you and I can only dream of. But they always played by their own rules and stuck to them."

Padraig suddenly understood with frightening clearness, what de Kersausson wanted to explain. " You will allow the French branch to make their deal and ship the Mistrals over to the US, Erwan!"

"I will, Paddy! The Americans have accepted to return the hardware, as soon as they lay hands onto the shipping."

"Which means, that Ivan Sarnoff will have to account for a monumental failure with Oleg Ivanov!"

"Exactly, Padraig….and you know how Ivanov handles such kind of mistake…he will let Sarnoff drop like a hot potato and whoever can off the rogue, will be most welcomed by the 'vozhd' to do so…."

Ryan shook his father's hand off. "And you think, Monsieur Le Préfet, that nobody in BunkerHill will even lift a finger, if someone –inside- will go for Ivan at this moment….."

"Exactly, son!" The prefect replied happily. He ignored the furious looks on the faces of Moulin and Delveaux completely. He was perfectly aware of the fact that neither found any charm in his project, but he could not care less. If they could kill off three flies with a single strike, everything was good for him.

O'Briain exploded.

Ryan almost choked, when it became suddenly as clear as crystal what de Kersausson insinuated. "I am a cop, not a killer…." He said softly.

"You are most certainly not, young man!" De Kersausson said nonplussed, ignoring Padraig O'Briain's side show and his own officers' scandalised faces."…or else you would not sit here with me and discuss this project, but keep happy company at his state-founded vacation centre!...I am nonetheless convinced, that you are quite capable of killing a man, if you have to...."

****

Frank Tripp had offered his arm to Commander Marais, as they strolled along Miami beach at a leisurely pace. He thoroughly enjoyed the company of the clever and cute lady, even if he was still trying to calm down his excitement over the highflying French project. First it had seemed completely nuts to him and he had been close to jumping from his chair and shouting at this tough-nosed Paris Police prefect with his perfectly neutral face and his perfectly manicured hands. But after everything had sunk in, he had seen the beauty of the plan and the potential it had for both his people and the French. It was ravaging mad and Ryan would be completely nuts if he'd accept to play along….but it was…feasible and he had the strange feeling, that not only the Chief of MDPD would agree but also that Horatio would accept.

"As a matter of fact…" Regine said cheerfully in her beautiful, slightly accented Alto, "…all we need to do now is some solid ground work. If the timing is good, your guy will be in BunkerHill for a couple of days only and I am sure that the MDPd has a set of prisoners inside, who are more then willing to look after his ass, if you promise them some reduction in their sentences or …certain creature comforts."

Tripp laid his huge, warm paw gently over Regine's long, cool fingers. " And we need to convince some journalist to play along and keep his mouth shut until everything is over!" He smiled like a huge, content tom-cat. He had already a tiny idea who this journalist could be and how to convince her to play with MDPD.

Regine felt very comfortable with Sergeant Tripp. In the short time they had been working together she had had an occasion to see not only his business face, but also some of his more private features: Honest concern, a good heart, a lively spirit and an enormous amount of humour and self-derision.

She liked the man a lot….much more then the self-possessed lieutenant Caine, who was so dead logic and so completely detached and who appeared to be nothing more then a high precision calculator without any human feelings. She'd been very amused to observe Frank and his internal turmoil, when Préfet de Kersausson had exposed his plan and she had found it endearing when the sergeant had discussed hard with the high police official in order to find out, if this curious plan would not turn out a double edged sword for that young CSI Wolfe in the end. She knew it was not.

Police forces all around the world operated in such a manner and police officers got infiltrated into prisons under fake accusations. Habitually, when everything was over and the ops had been a success, the authorities would see to it to have a time schedule on the evening news in order to inform the population and cite the heroic colleague with name and picture in order to rehabilitate him…anyhow, the memory of the average television news client was very short and while he'd be infuriated when hearing about a rogue copper and then very proud when learning about a hero, it would take him or her less then 24 hours to forget the whole thing completely and go on with their lives.

So all that this young CSI would basically risk were his life and health while inside the detention facility and some rather strange glances from unknown bystanders for a couple of days. And in the end, such a mission would perhaps even get the guy a nice promotion and a medal from the MDPD. And from what she'd learned from Frank about Wolfe, she did not doubt that the young cop was perfectly up to the challenge!

"What about diner now, Frank!" Regine asked her companion cheerfully. "I am famished after our long day's work!"

Tripp returned her smile. "But tonight you will allow me to take you out….no invitation of your Republic to the US….just a nice snack with ol'Frank in his favourite hangout!"

****

Ramona Sanchez was still hardly able to believe her good fortunes. She motioned to the broad-shouldered worker from the moving company to put the brand new flat screen television into the future living room, while trying to contain the enthusiasm of her two young brothers and brewing a comforting cup of tea for Marja Feodorovna who was completely exhausted and foot-sore after their extensive shopping trip. But the old lady was most certainly not tired. She was on her knees in front of a kitchen cupboard, arranging colourful, hand painted plates they had discovered and bought in a new Swedish shop in Coral Gabbles. Marija's little dog was standing by his mistress sight and making a hell of a noise, barking at the movers.

"Pete,.." Ramona called Mister Alex bulky bodyguard who had kept them silent and steady company all through their shopping day, "…would you mind to go and try to find some snacks for all of us. There must be something close bye. With all this havoc I will not get any further then brewing tea."

Piotr snatched the furious little dog from the floor, shushed it gently in Russian and left. He had enjoyed their day. It was much better to take care of Ramona and 'Babushka' then to do Danielenko's and Nevzorov's other biddings and he was very content that over the last few days he'd been demoted from his former position in the organisation to nanny with the girls. He tried to reason with Ramona's brothers, extracted them slyly from their new chambers with a promise of ice cream and left the mad house at a trot with all his little folks behind. He had already identified the small Italian food shop that sold take always a bit earlier and headed straight for the premises when he saw a light silvery grey hummer with the insignia of the MDPD CrimLab draw into the drive way right next to Ramona's. The red-headed driver was their arch enemy Lieutenant Horatio Caine. The man looked rather tired and worn.

Piotr entrusted the dog's leash to Pedro and took the hand of his younger brother Rodrigo. "Now we are going to buy some nice stuff!" He told the two children in his deep, accented voice, lowering himself to close the zipper on Rodrigo's sweater and throwing a discreet glance over at the Lieutenant's. The guy was scotched to his cell phone and Piotr tried to pick up on the conversation. But it was in vain. The man spoke quickly and his accent did not sit well with the Russian.

****

"The idea suits me, Frank!" Caine replied. "But I must think it through A to Z, discuss with the Chief and bring Stetler in on it. As to the press part…I agree with you. She may not be enchanted to do me a favour, but I believe that I can convince her to play along and keep her big mouth shut for once. Let's talk later…there is too much noise out here." He closed his cell and threw a curious glance at the movers next door. The comely house had been on sale for several months. It seemed as if the real estate agency had finally found a buyer who was able to pay the 90.000 US and the commission, notwithstanding the actual timid attitude of the banks. With the economic crisis hitting the country for over a year now, the market was overflown with property, even in relatively rich Miami-Dade country, but hardly a potential new homeowner could convince his bank to lend him money.

He leaned against the Hummer and watched. It was very nice furniture they were carrying inside. Obviously people with children. He saw two small beds and two pretty dressers, paint in blue and yellow go inside. A sturdy bloke, with a face only a mother could love was shepherding two boys with huge ice creams and a rowdy little, white dog into the garden. The children looked happy, well cared for and nice.

"Well, nature had mercy upon you!" He thought. " You must come after your mum and not your dad." He turned around, minding his own business and entered his own house. Even if he was rather far away from the MDPD and the lab, he liked it out here. It was a gentle and quite suburb with lots of greenery and several farms that sold their products directly to the neighbourhood. Behind his own garden, a whole bunch of smallish, long horned Scottish Highlands were grazing peacefully. His next neighbour farmed bio and sold wonderful butter and homemade cheese. Horatio decided to change and trot over to Tomlinson to buy some bottles of fresh milk, a loaf of dark bread and cheddar for diner. And perhaps a piece of poultry from 's backyard. The chicken were running free and fed on veggies and bio grain. They tasted good on the barbecue.

He was slightly fagged from the last few days and the turmoil with Wolfe, the Russians and the French and he had decided to spend a night in his own bed after having squatted without invitation at Ryan's for two nights. He also needed some change and a good shower before returning tomorrow to the lab.

He'd met Eric and Calleigh in a rush. The two having spend a very restful and uneventful Monday over unimportant stuff. BoaVista and Valera had been treating DNA on a paternity case and a troublesome heritage for the tribunal and the rest of his day shift had been mostly hanging around in their labs killing time. Horatio for once was more then happy with the lack of action. He could do with another few homicide-free days, he decided.

Frank Tripp had given him a hard bone to chew on and he had to mull over Rick Stetler and how to explain to him a certain amount of things. It was also important to make sure that none of his CSIs learned anything about the truth behind what was going on. Their rightful embarrassment and hopefully even anger would be an even better protection for their man then the most sensational television broadcast Erica Sikes could do, if he managed to talk her into this.

He took some money from a drawer and left his house through the backdoor. It was a most beautiful evening. He cut short over the prairie. The smallish Highlands were gentle beasts and did not even try and chase after the intruder. Before Tomlinson had had nasty Longhorns and it had not been an option to take this shortcut.

"Hello, M'am!" He greeted the farmer's wife, who was feeding her chicken in the yard.

"Good evening, Lieutenant Caine!" The young woman replied, cleaning her hands on her jeans. "As usual?"

"A bit more tonight." He answered cheerfully and stated his purpose. The M'am offered him a chair under an umbrella and invited him to take some ice tea, while she went off to fetch his stuff.

It would be interesting to see, how the French would figure out the time and place of delivery of their stolen Mistrals and the illegal radars de Kersausson had mentioned. Horatio had already spoken with his counterpart from Homeland Security and she agreed to give a helping hand with this case, including the return of the Ground-to-Air missiles to their rightful European owners. She had not been surprised at the French handing over intelligence so readily and striking a deal that at first sight looked more advantageous to the MDPD then to the European policemen who had done the groundwork.

Caine had learned from the Homeland Security special agent, with whom he had already worked a couple of cases that the CIA and the FBI –after 9/11- had decided to set up shop in France immediately and that the cooperation had been more then fruitful. She was not at all surprised to hear from Horatio how quick the French had been to react and to concentrate a high amount of forces from different agencies upon this case which involved the Russian mob.

He took a sip from his ice tea, mulling over the special agent's words. Somehow he did not want to have the French system – efficient as it might be – imported into his country, but he admitted rather frankly that it was occasionally an excellent thing to be capable to run such a highly elaborate set up along the finer limits of legality in order to destroy a clear and present danger.

******

After the first high flying emotions had passed, they had all listened very attentively to de Kersausson's explanations. While Frank Tripp had told Ryan that neither he nor H. had found his service weapon or cell in his house in Miami, he had not believed that Sarnoff's people would take the two items in order to launch such an elaborate and extremely sophisticate scheme against the CSIs. The French interrogators had learned from Belkin that besides killing Wolfe, getting hold of the CSI's weapon and the cell had also been part of his mission.

Belkin did not know the identity of the mob's mastermind, since their organisation was rather compartmentalized in its highest ranks, but he had been made aware of the full contents of the plan:

The 'Bratstvo' wanted to give the impression, that one of Caine's CSIs had turned rogue and was going after his colleagues one by one. This would not only get them rid of Horatio and his team but also throw an atrocious light upon the MDPD and its CrimLab in the eyes of the general public. In the end, such anti-publicity might be just good enough for some clever defence attorney to have Sarnoff's case reviewed in front of a court and if the associates of Ivan played their game cleverly, the defence attorney would challenge the evidence against their boss, which was mainly reduced to manipulating games of hazard and horse racing and the man could be free to go home within a nick of time, returning back to his mischievous deeds and association of dangerous criminals.

Ryan was very much conscious of the fact, that the black book they had taken from Ivan had been retrieved due to information obtained from Marc Gantry. Marc being his friend, but also having been successfully blackmailed by the mob to fix horses, having a history of drug abuse and gambling debts etc. and now out of reach for testimony could be brought easy to fall by a good lawyer and he himself –having been associate with Gantry, having been send off the CrimLab for a couple of months also for gambling issues and having first and foremost slowed down a murder enquiry and in this process tried to put false evidence upon an innocent was an equal liability. Even a mediocre attorney who was prior to these facts could get Sarnoff out of prison and the Miami CrimLab under a very nasty enquiry from either IAB or even the Feds!

De Kersausson was right: He had not much of a choice if he wanted this many-armed and multiple-headed Hydra retreat back into the dark cave from where it had cometh!

"Ok, I am in with you!" He told the prefect. His voice was firm and determined, but inside he trembled with fear.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 25 Dirty Business

*

Claire sat through the whole discussion without saying a single word. It had taken her an enormous amount of self control not to jump together with Padraig, when de Kersausson had explained his machiavellian scheme, but to listen till the end and simply observe everybody around the table.

Claire and Erwan de Kersausson had indeed a very long history together – the police officer and the ME. Their careers had developed in parallel, making them both end up in Paris and in prestigious posts, Erwan the Paris Police Préfect and Claire the director of the most important forensiscs lab of the country.

Claire knew de Kersausson inside out. He could be on occasions completely ruthless, but he would also never send someone into harms way, if he could avoid it. She had great respect for the man, who had managed to fall up the ladder, including the necessary politicking and intriguing, without loosing his humanity or his soul. She watched Ryan attentively.

"Ok, I am in with you!" He told de Kersausson. His voice was firm and determined, but inside he trembled with fear. Claire could see it in his eyes.

Ryan , also he kept himself most of the time in check, had never been able to control his eyes. Nobody could! Eyes were the mirror of the soul and treacherous.

Claire gave her step-son a closer look: He was not afraid of the prison part in Erwan's project, neither did he mind the 'bad cop' and the classic public mud throwing that was usually staged, when police forces intended to get one of their own into the shadow world of felony and crime.

She was tempted to smile: Ryan did not lack physical courage to get himself into harms way, should need arise and he was sufficiently self-confident and mature to cope with whatsoever vilification, as long as he was convinced that what he did, was the right thing. Claire still remembered that scrawny, lanky and acne-ridden teenager, who'd accept a fight with a guy three times larger and about one head and a half higher then himself, when the bloke had been aggressive towards a girl from his school. Well, Ryan had been able to make kind of a point with the hulk and he'd backed of from that girl….notwithstanding her step-son's black eye and bloody nose, when coming home! While Ryan had never been one to initiate fights or physical confrontation, he had never backed off either. In this sense, he was exactly like his father. But he was different, when it came to more ruthless actions: Erwan stating matter of factly and cold that he was convinced Ryan could take a life, if he had too obviously troubled the younger man.

Ryan knew perfectly well that his father could kill in cold blood and had done so more then once in his life. Claire still remembered a nightly bonding and discussion with her step-son in the garden of their villa in Morgat. It had been around the time, when Ryan had started with the CSI in Miami and come home for some holiday: With Paddy in his study brooding over some harebrained Celtic manuscript, they had opened a bottle of red wine and lazed together carefree in the warm summer night. All of a sudden Ryan had turned from chit-chat to dead serious and told her, that he was not so sure having made the right choice becoming a police officer. And when she had asked him why, he told her, that he had frozen in front of a guy, who pointed his loaded gun at him and his colleagues with the intention to kill. And while he confessed that he had lied to IAB, telling the officer in charge, he had not pulled the trigger, because he had no angle to shoot, he told Claire under four eyes and in the secrecy of their own garden, that the truth was something else. Ryan confessed that he had been unable –even at the risk of his own life and that of his colleagues – to kill a man face to face. Pull the trigger and put a bullet right between the eyes he was looking into.

Claire had needled him a bit, telling him, that it would have been self-defence and nothing to worry about and that sometimes pulling the trigger was unavoidable for a police officer who had taken the oath to serve and protect. Ryan had accepted her reasoning and her words and agreed with her. It had been a little bit supernatural; the younger man admitting that while he had been shooting at targets since the tender age of 10, he could not even hit a caught fish over the head when going with his friend Frankkie down to the sea.

Claire had been tempted to laugh; even she with her soft heart was able to throw a lobster into boiling water to prepare diner or decapitate a chicken for the barbecue…..but then she had thought better. It would have been a bad move to laugh at someone, who admitted, that he could not kill.

Instead she had asked him for the reason why, somehow expecting an esoteric explanation. While neither she nor Padraig were religious people or even churchgoers, she had one day incidentally discovered that Ryan was highly superstitious in a very old fashioned and very Irish way, when he'd obstinately refused to remove a certain stone from their garden. He had been mumbling something about angering the fairies and recalling a soul from the realm of shadows.

But his reply had not been what she expected: It had nothing to do with her step son's most curious little superstitions and everything with both his father and his boss Lieutenant Caine at the MDPD.

"If I cross this line once," he had told her, "..,I will cross it again and again. And in the end I will be just like Paddy or H. Ok, neither is a bad man, quite the contrary…but they are both so ….completely ruthless."

She had accepted his statement but continued to needle him a bit. "But you have already shot at people, Ryan and you never had a problem with it."

And she had received the most illogic reply from her habitually highly logic step son. " That's different, Claire! You put a bullet into the knee or the shoulder of a criminal in order to make him stop his mischief, get him to justice and make him see the error of his ways. But if you kill the same guy…where is the justice in the end?"

Indeed, where was justice in the end?

She saw the same internal turmoil Ryan was living through at this moment with JP and Delveaux and she loved the two guys for it.

"Erwan,.." she said very softly, "…you are trying to play a dangerous game here…you insinuate, that if placed in front of Ryan at the right moment in time, this Sarnoff will lash out and do something that simply justifies my son killing him –so to say- in an act of self-defence! That may be so and you are probably right, but do you really believe that now that the words are spoken, Ryan can see it like that….and then live with the consequences?"

The five men around the table had fallen immediately silent, when Claire had lifted her voice. Padraig gave her a strange smile that said more then one thousand words. Moulin and Delveaux had expressions of deep respect for the slender, dark-haired woman written onto their faces. The Paris Police Prefect only gave a deep sigh and nodded.

Claire was not surprised by their reactions and attitudes. Paddy had thanked her without words from the depths of his heart, because she took the defence of his son, he could not take at this very moment. JP and his colleague from Organised Crime heard a calm voice of reason. And Erwan de Kersausson was perfectly aware of the immoral side of his master plan, but would stand by it till the end.

What surprised Claire, was Ryan's reaction to her analysis. He had been listening through most of the lunch and apart a word of wonder concerning the ease with which they had turned Belkin and made him change sides and the statement that he was a cop, not a killer, had not said a word. He did not become much more loquacious now. He simply nodded, confirming that she was right, but the fear had gone from his eyes and was replaced by a kind of calm determination that bordered resignation.

"You will have at least a months of respite, Ryan!" De Kersausson said. There was empathy in his voice and Claire appreciated the fact, that Erwan was capable of keeping his humanity intact through all his scheming and politicking.

"This has to be very well planned and organised and in order to do so, we first need to put Mr. Rossinski and his eager collaborators onto a track that will be a pretty big bone to chew….even if Rossinski will be able by tomorrow night to tell our fake your "wherabouts" in France."

Claire could not prevent herself from raising her voice once again. She gave her step son a hard look from unflinching green eyes. " And afterwards? This is indeed a wonderful plan and while the stakes are high, it is not impossible that you will succeed. But where is the justice in the end?"

Ryan did not take the bait. Claire was always surprised to see warm hazel eyes turn cold as ice in an instant. She was equally surprised by the sound of his voice.

"Justice, Claire?" His voice was even more resigned and downtrodden, then when he'd arrived from Miami, tired, beaten up, bloodied and hardly capable of putting two words together in a coherent manner. "We are not discussing justice here! Where was justice, when Sarnoff beat a man to dead, because he was not willing to give up his home? Where was justice, when Belkin's brother kidnapped a boy of 10 in front of his school and pointed his gun at the head of that child? Where was justice, when I created a set of prints to put an innocent bloke into prison? We are most certainly not discussing justice here….just damage control."

Claire gave a deep, desperate sigh and closed her eyes. Somehow, a small part of herself had hoped, that Ryan would be able to keep his innocence, but logic had always told her that it was impossible if he would stay in his line of business. Somehow, a small part of herself had wanted to protect at least one of the two people she loved most in this world from harm, hurt and distress, but logic had told her, that it was impossible, because the child she had never had was a grown up man now, who followed his own destiny.

**

Ryan did not lower his eyes. Claire, as always, had managed to put her finger right into the open wound. And it burned!

He had never ever been able to lie to her, not even for 30 seconds. When he had been a teen, he had been secretive with his beloved grandmother and deviant with his father, but Claire had always learned the truth: The true reason, why he had skipped school, the true reason, why he'd come home with a black eye and even what he had truly felt after his first physical encounter with a girl.

Ryan was perfectly aware of his own shortcomings and flaws and while he was perfectly capable of hiding them from 99,99% of the population and even from people who knew him excessively well, he had never even tried to hide them from Claire. He had even told her about his memories of the day he had seen his biological mother die in a burst of flame and noise. With Paddy – upon some kind of common understanding – they had never ever spoken of this day during the last 29 years, also he loved his father and trusted him.

It was strange, but he did not resent Erwan de Kersuasson's words at all. The prefect was right. If Sarnoff gave him the slightest occasion, he'd try and kill the man with his bare hands! He wanted to be rid of the Russian and get on with his life.

Ryan shook his head, stood up from the table. " I am sorry! " He said before simply disappearing between the flowering bushes of the garden.

Claire wanted to jump from her chair and go after him, but Padraig put his hand on her arm. "Let him go, dear! We all have our inner demons and nobody can help us fight them…let him brood a bit in his corner and come to terms with himself and his own conscience…"

***

Erwan de Kersausson had observed the theatricals with a knowing smile.

Hardly an hour ago he had asked a young and still very idealistic police officer to grow up in a nick of time. He was perfectly aware of the fact, that this was mean, ruthless and right out despicable, but this was it!

Deeper inside he regretted that he had taken the chance away from that Lieutenant Caine to find out, if or not he had hired a future leader or just another collaborator. It was perhaps the most exciting part of his job, to stand in front of 50 young, enthusiastic and very idealistic recruits and figure out, who of them would take his job in about 25 years time.

He gave Moulin and Delveaux a sly smile: His two favourite protégées! Delveaux would make Divissionaire. He knew. Francois had all the threats of character to be a leader, but it was Jean Paul who would rise…a couple of years with the RAID and cutting off the edges and Moulin would be the most dangerous rattlesnake in his whole Paris Police Prefecture.

Erwan regretted, that CSI Wolfe was not one of his own. It would have been exciting to see him and JP compete…and see, if their friendship would be stronger then their ambitions.

He rather looked forward to this unexpected occasion to meet that Lieutenant Caine of MDPD in about 24 hours of time.

From what he had heard of Caine and what he had seen in his own interaction with the man, they'd be great friends in a nick of time. Hopefully he could make Caine understand that Ryan had enormous potential. This cooperation with the Americans would be a most exciting and stimulating game and his gut feeling told Erwan, that in the end, everybody would get what he wanted….apart perhaps Mr. Ivan Sarnoff and their very own French-Russian mobster, Rossinski .

"Paddy's right, Claire!" He said rather heartlessly to his long-time associate and most trusted forensic expert and lifetime friend, "Let Ryan brood a bit and come to terms…the boy is not made of glass and will do fine. Trust him! We have more important things to do then meander about his immortal soul and potential scruples."

"You are a bastard, Erwan!" Claire blurted.

"Most certainly I am, Dear!" He replied happily, ignoring Moulin's and Delveaux's outraged expressions and Padraig's utmost surprise. "You cannot truly believe, that our Council of Ministers would make an angel, prefect of the Paris Police Forces?"

***

Ryan just wanted a place to hide. As far away from all the others as possible! He headed for the outer limits of the property and disappeared right inside a natural grotto made of several elder trees and an oak. Paddy and Claire left this part of the garden wild and nobody ever came here. He had discovered it after his forced break up with Erica, when he had desperately needed a place to cry in peace. And while the memories of Erica where not at all welcome at this moment , the place was perfect.

He slumped against his old friend the oak and let his head sink upon his knees.

It was all his fault! The whole twisted situation!

If he'd been slightly more reasonable and slightly less emotional, when Marc Gantry had called him for help, the situation might be completely different now! Instead of going to Marc and slamming that Russian mobster against a wall, he should have called H. and consulted with him first.

Besides Erica, who had already been his sweetheart at Boston College – she in journalism, him in biochemistry – Mark had been his best friend over in the US. And Mark had not told him the truth, when calling for help!

He had been so sure, that Gantry had quit the coke and let go all the rest, when he had found this job as a vet on the Miami Track. But he had been wrong. Mark had just continued in his old ways and called upon Ryan –as usual- when he himself saw no way out. And he had been stupid enough to rush to his friend's help!

Had he known, that Marc was not only back into drugs, but also entangled with the Russian mob, he would have acted differently.

"Heavens!"

Ryan wanted to slam his head against the hard trunk of the oak. He knew perfectly well, what the Russian mob was and what they were capable off….had seen it for a lifetime…knew each and every detail of his very own father's giant troubles with that bunch….and had nothing better to do then step into the same trap.

The Ismaiylovskaya was not your average criminal organisation, but the O'Briain family's personal curse! He hopped that if he'd ever have a child, it would not be a son….else the kiddo would repeat his father's and grand-father's silly mistakes and have a run-in with the Russians at the first occasion!

Ryan did not only feel tremendously guilty. He felt ashamed! He was absolutely disgusted with himself. He should have insisted with H. already after Nathan Madden, should have told his boss the truth, told him everything, he knew about these monsters.

But it was too late now. The time for regret and wallowing in self-pity was over. He had been so stupid to leave his service weapon and service cell at home, instead of locking both items into the deposit box at BNP Paribas. Now Sarnoff's people had something to make mischief….and mischief they would make.

Even with the bounty of intelligence and information retrieved from his would-be killer Belkin and the man's BlackBerry it would not be easy to stop the game that had started about six months ago, when some innocent bystander from Environmental Protection together with his girlfriend had stumbled over the half-eaten remainders of the victim of a mad cannibal and the CSI had been called in to investigate this strange homicide.

The victim and its stabbed cannibal had shocked Ryan. Even two years on patrol and five as a CSI had not been time enough to harden him against the more atrocious aspects of crime.

Delko had been right when he had told him that he still had a mind of mischief in a world of felony!

Instead of putting his habitual foot into his mouth as usual, this time he'd really dropped the brick!

Well, it would not be too difficult to turn him bad cop for the show….they'd just need to exploit his natural talent and it would do! At least, de Kersausson had not given him an easy way out like Rick Stetler after the case with Michael Lipton, also Ryan had never ever found out, why Stetler had fired him: Gambling? Consorting with a suspect in a homicide case? Being able to repay his bookie 10 grand within 24 hours? He had never found out and nobody had ever taken the pains to explain.

Ryan gave a deep sight and turned to face the oak. " Can you imagine, " He said aloud, with a voice full of derision, "..that even two years after the facts I have no clue who might have tipped off Stetler. I have done nothing illegal. I have never ever played a round of poker or black jack outside a state regulated casino, nor any no limits outside an Indian run place and as far as I know, horse racing has not been out of bounds in Miami for the last 150 years! So what the heck….? I have not even a credit with my bank or a five minutes delay with my last phone bill .."

Nobody had ever seen him asking to borrow money or making any comments about feeling impecunious. Hell, he was not! He had a pretty solid monthly income from interests on his heritage together with his MDPD pay check, with neither heritage nor paycheck a dark secret to Stetler or H. Both knew the contents of his personnel file with Human Ressources. And a civilised round of poker twice a months together with a few bets on January 1st at the Tropical Park Derby on Calder Race Course could hardly be considered a gambling addiction. A few subtle hints might have been nice before a happy-go-lucky suspect barges in and basically costs you your job!

Ok, he had not caved in, when H. had asked him about Lipton, but H. had been perfectly aware of the fact that he had recused himself with the man and send in Nathalia for the questioning. So even at the level of protocol, everything had been done by the book. He was not the first CSI and would not be the last to recuse and send in a colleague….all of them had done it at least once during his 5 years on the day shift: Delko, Calleigh, Nath even Horatio and Tripp.

More then all the mobbing and snobbing from Delko and Calleigh over the years, it had been this incident around Michael Lipton with Horatio that had completely broken to pieces Ryan's trust in his boss and in the team.

He had been quite capable to rationalise Rick Stetler's behaviour, also it had been very hard to take at the moment some two years ago…but Rick had had no choice. He was IAB and had to act like IAB. But Horatio had been his boss, had seen him on the job for three years, had been able to realise that he did his job and did it well….and nonetheless H. had stabbed him in the back. He had not even given him the shadow of a doubt…Not even the shadow of a doubt, as with Erica!

That was the other grievance he had with his boss over in Miami…he had never ever said even a single misplaced word to the press and even less to Erica and H. had known this perfectly well and nonetheless H. had put another knife to his throat….only that time, Ryan had caved in, chiefly for Erica's sake and her career.

Thinking of it, Horatio's fake dead still sat badly with him, together with Calleigh and Eric immediately assuming the worst and accusing him.

Well, now they could have their fun and berate him in peace, inside and outside the lab!

Suddenly the idea of playing the role of 'bad cop' seemed rather attractive to Ryan Wolfe: If over the dead body of his inexistent reputation with his colleagues and his boss he could at least reap conclusion with Ivan Sarnoff it was worth the risk. He had not much to loose anyhow and the situation could not get worse. He gave his good friend the old oak a smile, stood up and left his recluse. Better to get on and over with it, before he could change his mind and come back to his senses. Habitually he functioned best, when he was mightily pissed…even if it was only with himself.

So now was the moment or never to ask that rattlesnake Erwan de Kersausson about his Acheronian master plan. He had made the mistake to sow the wind, now he had to assume his responsibilities and harvest the storm!

***

Frank Tripp had not felt so relaxed and content on a personal level for a very long time. The Miami night was warm and gentle, the Cuban music drifted gently through the air without disturbing their peace and Regine was sitting in front of him, smiling and all relaxed and with her hair down, sipping a glass of dark Irish Guinness and enjoying herself and…his company.

Frank had never thought of himself as a 'Lady's Man'. He was very much aware that he would rather be counted among the 'reassuring' then the 'attractive' or the 'good looking'. But he was neither shy nor self-conscious. He had invited Regine for diner, because his guts had told him that this was 'right', perfectly right and an occasion he must not let slip between his fingers and Regine seemed to agree with him.

They had shortly stopped at her place and she had changed into somewhat less formal clothing, telling him with a girlish smile, that she would not accompany him to his favourite hangout and hopefully a cool beer in her formal attire and 7 cm high heels. He had enjoyed the nice view from the balcony of her cute little flat, while she had gone off to change and when she'd come back ol'Frank had been completely speechless and clever enough to let her know.

And now they sat here at O'Donnell's right on the beach, watched the stars and the dark seas and enjoyed each others company. They were in the midst of some high-flying police operation that went not only across some borders but across the Atlantic and they had not even exchanged a single word about their jobs.

Regine loved irish and American folk music, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and almost raw T-bone steak. She enjoyed long foot walks, hunting and camping in the wild and notwithstanding her sophisticate appearance she was a straight forward, hard nosed and brash country girl. Like Frank she looked back on the broken marriage that service as a police officer seemed to include together with the job description and she had two brats back in France who considered their mother immature and hare brain, because she insisted working as a copper instead of profiting from her ex-husband's lavish pay check and be nice. She had the darkest humour Frank had ever seen in a female and she held her drink like a patrolman on Highway 66, the Main Street of America and he was falling in love with the girl.

It had been a long time ago, that he had so much enjoyed an evening with a woman and so much laughed about a multitude of nasty little jokes and funny anecdotes. Regine did not take herself seriously and he found it absolutely refreshing, especially after her long, slender and cool fingers had ventured confidently towards his tie and retrieved it expertly, opening the two upper buttons of his shirt in the same movement.

Regine took another sip of her Guinness and beamed at him." How old are you, Frank?" She asked him.

"Going to turned 50 around Christmas!" He replied confidently, understanding that this question was not really an enquiry concerning his date of birth and age.

"I am 45!" Regine said with an even larger smile, "Which makes us grown ups…doesn't it?" Habitually she kept her hands carefully off her colleagues, since there was nothing worse to a career then a love life on the job. But Frank Tripp was no colleague of hers and a member of the police forces of another country and they would be only obliged to work together for a very short time. Then he would go back to MDPD and she to her business as a legal attaché at the French consulate at Miami and no professional interlacing would hinder an evolution of a potentially promising relationship.

Frank took her small hand in his huge pawn and kissed it gently. They would work together for a short moment in time, just to sort out Ryan's mishap and the bullshit with Ivan Sarnoff. Then Regine would go back to taking care of stray French citizens on the shores of the ocean and he would return into the fold of Horatio's day shift. There was no good reason for them to refrain, from what they both were intending to do. He was perfectly capable of keeping business and private life apart and Regine did not seem the type of woman to mix up the two either.

"If it would not be so stereotype…." Tripp chuckled, " I'd ask you the notorious question "Your place or mine!"

Regine burst with laughter, drowned her Guinness and took a firmer grip on the bear's pawn in her smallish hand. "Yours, Frank! Since this pub is your hangout, you are close bye….I am living on the other side of town and I have no intention to wait until doomsday before tearing that nice little shirt off your very inviting shoulders and ravaging you!"

The old copper bit his lips and gave her a wink. "Fortunately nobody can listen in on this conversation or we'd be in straight jackets right now!"

"Could be interesting, Frank!" Regine replied cheeky, " Also I rather prefer a nice, comfortable and spacious bed….I am a bit old-fashioned, you know!"

A few hours later, frank Tripp stated, that they had never made it to his nice, comfortable and spacious bed, but Regine was such a minute piece of woman, that the rather large divan in his secluded little garden had been sufficient for the two of them. He had his right arm slung around Regine's slender, bronzed shoulders and the little devil slept peacefully and obviously sated on his chest. She was also the owner of two very tentacular legs that prevented him from moving. He smiled and kissed her bare shoulder. Instead of waking up, as he had intended, Regine simply snuggled closer into his arm and locked her legs in a kind of dead grip. He somehow managed to sneak his left arm under her and lift her up gently. They'd be a feast to Miami's mosquito's if they'd stay out her all night and he had had a sudden feeling of guilt, when glancing at his watch and realising that it should be somewhere around 9 o'clock in the evening over in France. He had promised Ryan to give him a call.

"Voila, sweet!" He whispered into her ear, employing one of the ten French words he remembered from his honeymoon 25 years ago. "Now you go to to bed and I call a friend over at your place and then I will be back with you!"

Almost as soon as Frank had spoken his soft words, Regine's eyes flew open and she seemed surprisingly awake. "You don't worry about your little CSI , Frank! " She whispered softly. He's in good hands and they take care of him.

"I trust you, Regine!" He replied, carrying her light weight through his living and into the bedroom, " …but I want him to know that somebody over here also cares….."

Regine slipped from his arms. Her night vision was a bit amazing, because she immediately snatched the phone from the bed table and held it out to Tripp. " You are right, Frank!" She said.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 26 Hydra Raising Her Ugly Head

*

IRS Special Agent Peter Eliott looked like a ghost. The usually well-dressed and nicely groomed officer was completely dishevelled; tie less, his shirt open, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, dark shadows under his eyes and even darker five o'clock shadows on his chin, he sat at four in the morning still in his office. Apart the night watch and security, Peter was the only living soul in the whole building. And he was at this very moment a very happy soul indeed: His extensive night shift was paying off!

Following Horatio Caine's impromptu visit, Peter had seen his superiors and exposed to them what unexpected bounty he had received via the MDPD from France. His superiors had instantly agreed, that he should shove off his dental care centre to another IRS agent and get himself acquainted with the papers concerning the real estate operations of one Mr. Ivan Sarnoff. And acquainted he was now….not only with Ivan's dealings in ship slids!

It had taken Eliott quite some time to fully comprehend the contents of the French documents. He had drawn an extensive chart, trying to link together all Ivan Sarnoff's enterprises that were mentioned in the papers. Then he had cross checked with information the IRS had on the man and some of his presumed associates. And miraculously everything fitted neatly together. The Russian mob had been so thorough and organised in its book-keeping activity, that Eliott knew by now not only quite a lot about the hierarchy inside the crime organisation but also that Miami's famous beach restaurant 'The Forge' together with its two clubs belonged to the 'Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo'.

In Peter's line of business it was completely useless to rush things. The IRS special agent wrote down a list of to-does. It would require a small and highly secretive task force and about 4 to 6 weeks of checking, cross-checking and verification work. Probably he'd also be obliged to enquire with Horatio Caine about who might be his best contact in France. He'd goggled the acronym on an accompanying administrative slip and knew that the DGRI was the recently created merger between France's former internal intelligence service DST and the French Police's Intelligence and Homeland Security Department RG. From the Wikipedia web page he knew, that DGRI had a highly performant Cyber Crime Branch, who seemed to be at the origin of his bounty. Considering the fact, that the French had already managed to hack Sarnoff's IT system and break into his secret realm of mischief, tax fraud, illegal financial transactions and money laundering, it would most certainly be better to ask them for help instead of fiddling around on their own and loose time. He did not mind asking the French. He had quite some nice pieces of meat to offer in exchange for their help: Several French citizens who used the Sunshine State to make French tax money disappear and some interesting stuff concerning a French-run Private Military Company in Miami. While this activity was not at all illegal in the US, Peter knew fairly well how prickly the Europeans minus the UK were in this respect. Even if the PMC was clean from an IRS and Homeland Security point of view, he imagined that Paris would perhaps be enchanted to know how much these guys made and to whom they subcontracted not only in Iraq and in Afghanistan, but also in several countries in Asia and Central Asia.

Eliott entered a small note into his POA: "Remember buying crate of six good bottles of French wine at Bispo's cellar to thank H. and CSI Day Shift for cooperative spirit! Enquire discreetly with BoaVista if team prefers red or white wine. St. Emillion for Red or Coteaux du Layon for White may be sufficiently fancy to show CSI that IRS highly appreciates gift!"

**

Vladimir Nevzorov called Jakob Jarovsky. A small hand of the organisation, just released from Bunker Hill after a six months detention for petty theft had transmitted a short but very significant message from Ivan. Jarovsky had Sarnoff's go for his missiles and radars from Rossinski in France. Apparently Ivan had a small preference for offering them to the Columbian drug cartels, if they'd be willing to pay the price, but would not oppose Jarovsky proposing to other potential clients. His only formal order was to keep two of the missiles and one radar for potential use by themselves, should need arise or an occasion come up, were a massive show of forces could be productive and useful.

Jarovsky acknowledged and hung up. No need to prolongate phone calls on a subjects as hot as 12 high tech ground-to-air missiles, which came from a fabulous theft -ten years ago in a French Army depot - and which were still searched for by its former owner.

He had some ideas, beyond the Columbians: This type of equipment could make an even better price with some of his habitual clients, who dealt not in drug and crimes but where stimulated by more political ideals!

***

Wolfe had spend a little more then an hour at his favourite hiding place under the oak tree. He felt that he had come to terms with his conscience and could now go on with determination.

His rather considerable inner demon told him that since he was in great parts responsible for the mess with Sarnoff's mob, he had to try and help clean up.

What Erwan de Kersausson suggested was nothing less then an officially sanctioned opportunity to murder an otherwise untouchable, die hard and extremely dangerous enemy!

Should it work out and he not getting himself killed within the hour by whatsoever scoundrel inside the BunkerHill detention facility who had a grief with either him, the CrimeLab, Horatio or the entire MDPD, then they would later declare officially that he'd been send in for information gathering on a tough case.

Ryan wondered, how Rick Stetler would take to the entire project: Rick was habitually rather unenthusiastic about undercover operations and those multiple breaches of law that habitually went with this type of police action.

Wolfe understood Stetlers point of view: Most cops who turned dark for the sake of a case had a very difficult time to return into the fold and come back to the light. And some police officers never made it back….Horatio Caine's brother Raymond was such an example….Jake Berkley another. There were still some rumours about Calleigh's former boy friend and his drug addiction inside the MDPD!

He was very much relieved that according to de Kersausson he had still a temporary reprieve of about four weeks before it would be time to pull himself together, brace up and go to the slaughter.

***

Frank Tripp joined Regine Marais on the bed, curling up against the tiny piece of woman and pulling her into his arms.

"That was strange!" he confessed with a bashful and boyish smile.

He had dialled Ryan's number in France. The same female voice that had replied a couple of days earlier had replied and obviously recognized him. Instead of letting him wait and going off to look for Ryan somewhere, she had started a discussion with Frank, asking him about what was going on over in Miami and how it had come that none of his colleagues or his boss had realised that Ryan first had gone missing for half a day and then turned up in very bad shape and displaying an unusual behaviour.

Frank had been very honest with the woman. He knew now, that she was Ryan's step mother, went by the name of Professeur Charpentier and was apparently an M.D. It seemed rare in France to tell a stranger one's first name, so he had taken to calling her by her title, of which she had obviously approved. And while her voice had been very cultivate and her English very good it had not been difficult for him to detect a cool misgiving in the more subtle undertones of the conversation.

He had told her, that they had been under high pressure to solve a strange homicide together with a robbery and that just the day before they had been entangled in an even more curious case, including the long range shooting of a suspect –Serguei Patrenko- and the frightening discovery of the fact that Ivan Sarnoff's crime organisation had been keeping the whole team under close surveillance for several months already.

While Ryan's step mother had been relatively understanding, considering the case pressure and the circumstances, she had nonetheless snubbed Tripp. And while he himself and probably also the French lady knew perfectly well, that the decisions had been Lieutenant Caine's, he had taken his reprimand and agreed with her: They had literally invited a certain number of problems, first by taking Ivan Sarnoff's menaces to lightly and then by blissfully ignoring that Ryan was out of bounds for very good reasons. It would have been only logic to call in another shift for the stockbroker's homicide and first investigating the observation upon their day shift and the implications this tracking by a dangerous criminal organisation might have have for the whole team. Horatio had made the mistake to try and confront the situation with his habitual brash courage and haughtiness instead of playing an open hand with Stetler concerning Sarnoff, his mob and his team.

Now the Lieutenant was forced by circumstances to come clear. Probably so much the better. If they'd have continued in their secretive ways – even not regarding Ryan's predicament – probably something dreadful and destructive beyond repair would have come out.

"You know,…" Regine caressed his face tenderly and placed a small kiss upon his front, "..this lady you have spoken with…..she is the big boss of our most important crime lab in France…a little bit a 'super-Horatio' without a gun and sunglasses. " The female police officer chuckled softly about her own little joke.

"She's no dunce and comprehends very well this overall situation and also the implications for your team and probably the entire MDPD. She may be very protective of your little CSI Wolfe, but she's probably an even better ally over there in France then my former boss, Prefect de Kersausson."

"So you think, she will not try and talk Ryan out of this hare brain plan for his own sake?"

Regine shook her head. She had been working on several cases with Claire Charpentier and her team from Garches University Hospital and knew how tough and unyielding the professor was, when it came to bringing criminals to justice and a closure to bereft families of homicide victims or other felonies that involved the crime scene investigators and the scientific police.

And while Claire Charpentier never carried a weapon and stout-heartedly refused this right to dispose of a means of self-protection, she went out into the field. The lady was no lab rat at all. She knew perfectly well that occasionally the ends justified the means, even if those were discussable and on the brink of immorality and Regine had a faint idea, why in this specific case that involved the Russian mob and the Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo, Professeur Charpentier might perhaps even be more understanding and open-minded then habitually. There were some rumours about her in the French police forces….nothing loud and determined, but sufficiently consistent to believe they were true.

And if Regine was not completely mistaken, this meant that the patroness of the Garch Forensics lab knew a great deal about Russian mobsters and the dangers they brought upon all those who dared to spite and ridicule them. It also meant that Frank's little CSI probably knew much more about the danger his team was in then he'd ever admit to his boss Lieutenant Caine!

****

Kenwall Dusquene returned slowly to his senses. He had not the slightest idea, how he'd come to this place. The air was fresh and cool and smelt of salt. He could feel small stones and dry, sharp vegetation under his hands. He leaned slumped against the side of his car.

Where had he been? The last thing he remembered clearly was that he'd gone for diner with a lawyer colleague and a client to Christy's at Coral Gables. They'd started with with a generous platter of potato skins caviar and sour cream and continued on the restaurant's famous prime rib, a massive slab of aged beef cooked for three hours and then sliced to order. They had talked business until about 10 p.m, watering down their food with several choice bottles of heavy red wine from Argentinia. Then the client had left and he and Parker Yates - a good man who'd also rush to the defense of poor citizens, not claiming any legal fees if he deemed the cause worthy to be fought – had decided to finish the evening and their discussion over at O'Reilly's, a notorious Coral Gables hangout of the legal profession.

Kenwall knew that it had been wrong to first indulge in red wine and then take another whisky or two, but he had been so convinced after this exciting case had turned up, that he'd handle the alcohol. But now….he sat somewhere on the beach, probably in a remote place off Miami, leaning against his car, remembering nothing and just seeing through a veil of too much smoke and alcohol that there was not only blood on his trousers, but also on the white paint of the left fender of his Range Rover….and it appeared to him, that the front light left was shattered, traces of blood sticking to the remainers of the glass protection.

His stomach contracted at this strange 'déjà-vue'. Five years ago he'd woken up in a similar state of confusion to find similar blood traces on his former car and a faint memory of having hit something or someone in his bedazzled brain.

Kenwall stumbled to his feet. Panic was kicking in hard and without mercy. He fumbled his cell from his pocket, opened it and hit the speed dial button for his daughter Calleigh. She had been so very much disappointed with him then…but she had nonetheless helped. After the horrible incident he had sworn to his daughter, that he'd quit drinking for good, also Calleigh had never truly believed him. He'd also sworn to change his ways and got himself a job with the public defenders' office….the promise he'd kept ever since! And while 'Duke' was horrified of the idea to once more look into Calleigh's sad and deeply disappointed eyes, he knew nonetheless that his daughter was the first and best person in the world to turn to now.

****

Aliosha Danilenko slumped onto his bed. He was dead tired and heavenly satisfied. The nasty trick on CSI Calleigh Dusquene via her hard drinking father, attorney Kenwall Dusquene had been one of the easiest he'd ever pulled in his life…..and it was probably also one of his best. A true side-show worthy of an entire internet website – "Solve a Crime with Calleigh…..and find out that there was no crime". Already the title was enticing and great fun. Unfortunately he could not bring Dan Cooper into his confidence. Aliosha was sure that the former Crime Lab technician turned crack programmer would have appreciated. The Ismaiylovskaya was already good at holding grudges. But Cooper appeared to be even more gifted in this cloudy and esoteric speciality of the human soul!

They might figure out that the blood on the car came from a voluntary blood donation and not from a life body and they would understand in the end that the bodily fluids he'd smeared so carefully onto the trousers of 'Duke' Dusquene had been simply taken from a used condom, but it would take time and give Lieutenant Horatio Caine's CSIs a huge headache. Furthermore, their life would be pretty difficult, since the hooker he'd paid 200 bucks for her fluids and another 5 grands so she'd disappear from Miami for a couple of weeks was most certainly in the so-called CODIS database. CSI Dusquene's lawyer father potentially involved with a junkie and professional prostitute who'd mysteriously disappeared from her habitual hang out in one of the worst and most infamous parts of the town……it was pure relish, even better then a nice plate of caviar, blinis and sour cream together with a cup of champagne.

He decided to take some well merited rest. Later on he'd contact their rotten apple in the MDPD crime lab. As soon as Caine and his pack were running after the non-existent body of a homicide that never had happened but closely touched one of their own, he'd see to it that the tasty morsels of this icky scandal were leaked to the press. Horatio would most certainly enjoy some publicity: One CSI gone and missing, another CSI discredited via her alcoholic father….Life could not be better!

Now all they had to do is wait for Timofeij Belkin's success message from France and an ugly ghost from the CSI would raise its head and go after his remaining colleagues and the reputation of the MDPD for good….and with a little bit of luck Ivan would be out of BunkerHill in a nick of time. They'd call in the very best defence attorney of Miami-Dade in order to challenge not only the set-up of Sarnoff by Wolfe and Caine with the help of Gantry, but also the veracity of the contents of Ivan's notebook.

*****

Notwithstanding the tremendous pressure of the last few days and his fatigue, Horatio woke up with the raising sun and the first cockcrow over at Tomlinson's. His purchases from the farm were stored in the fridge. had invited her neighbour to stay for the family dinner, after they had chatted for a while over ice tea and a basket of fresh fruits.

He was happy that he'd accepted the invitation instead of returning to his place and brooding all alone over the elaborate French plot to cull Ivan Sarnoff and the implications this setup would have for CSI Wolfe.

The project was clever and had great potential. He had a good feeling. The only b-moll was : Ryan would carry the burden….once again and get himself into harms way by accepting the slandering of his reputation and a sojourn at BunkerHill Detention Facility.

From a technical point of view, the whole thing was easy to manage: He'd talk to the Chief, explain a bit more in detail, what they got from France, tell the boss that they had one of their officers –actually on sick leave- who would be perfect under cover and who had the guts to take up the challenge. Then it would be 'confession day' with Rick Stetler!

Horatio knew that Rick was neither his nemesis nor his sworn enemy, but simply a colleague who did another type of job and who had another approach towards their profession. He could not even say that he disliked Stetler. The issue over Yelina still hung between the two of them, but that was private life and not MDPD and for all the rest the man had been twitchy and a bit nasty but nonetheless compassionate. It would not be difficult to make Stetler see the beauty of the plan and the interest of using Wolfe, but Rick would most probably be mighty pissed with him for another reason: Horatio had seen quite clearly that something had been very wrong with Ryan after the conclusion of the case around Megan Hamilton, Zoe Belle and Tony Ramirez. But he honestly could not have cared less that Morning in the skyscraper in downtown Miami! It came down to his habitually uncaring attitude with ! He had taken him off patrol and into the lab at Ryan's own risk and perils, offering him an exciting field of work and new career perspectives. Considering the fact, that Wolfe had come out of Academy first of his promotion and one of the best police officers in about a decade, Horatio had set the bar high with him….very high! After his great deception with Tim Speedle and a night of the soul over Erik Delko and their highly complicate relationship, Horatio had made a vow to never ever let whatsoever personal feelings influence his attitude toward one of his CSIs and the fact that Wolfe was paying the price did not give him sleepless nights. He wanted to join! He was in! Now it was up to Ryan to assume his choices and prove that he'd been worth the pains.

Horatio went quickly through his e-mails, sending a word to Kyle and replying in the negative to a personal friend's invitation for a barbecue next weekend. Ryan Wolfe resembled too much another Horatio Caine he still remembered all to well from his days as an undercover agent and police officer in New York. He would not make the mistakes his own mentor Al Humphreys had made with him a long time ago. He had made most of them already with Speed and Delko and also with Calleigh and paid the price. It was tough look for Wolfe to have been the first target of Sarnoff's bunch and spend an uncomfortable night in unpleasant company, but Ryan was not made of glass, he could either cope with it and get on and accept his faith or take his tail between his legs, stay cosy in France and run from responsibility.

Horatio pressed the send button for his private e-mail, rose, went over to the kitchen to brew some coffee and pondered upon how he'd sell everything to Stetler. He hoped that this Paris Police prefect de Kersausson had a darn good plan concerning his Mistral missiles and how to lay hand upon a cargo of highly illegal and dangerous military hardware, before the stuff was hidden somewhere in or around Miami. He had no intention to run after a set of vengeful mobsters equipped with almost invincible high tech.

******

"Just the man I need!" De Kersausson gave Ryan Wolfe a happy smile and invited him to take his place around the table. "You are through with being huffy and squeamish? Decided to return to the playground with the grown ups?"

O'Briain felt a strange desire to slam his fist straight into his age-old friend's jaw, when he heard Erwan's cynical words and saw Ryan's distraught face, but he took upon himself and stayed calm. They had agreed that he'd drive that old, nasty rattlesnake to the airport, because Erwan wanted to discuss something under four eyes.

Paddy decided that he'd pull out the car at La Courneuve, beat the living daylights out of de Kersausson and drop him into a dustbin! Although the former Chief of Intelligence of the IRA knew exactly that his daydream would not become reality and they'd have probably a very civilised convo, it did him a world of good to imagine his old friend in that dustbin….covered in potato peelings and slightly rotten cat food!

Ryan did not take the bait for the second time on the same evening: Already when Claire had challenged him concerning justice and murder, he'd taken it pretty much like a man, not hiding behind philosophical bullshit or evasive chit-chat but rather taking a time out to mull it over and make peace with his own conscience.

Paddy had always appreciated with his son, that he'd think first and act next and not the other way round.

Wolfe simply acknowledged the jibe with a nod, took his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. "Would you be kind enough to explain, what you intend to do now, Sir!" He addressed de Kersausson formally. His face was almost too composed for an hour of torment and fight with an inner demon, but Padraig realised, that his son's eyes were cold and unblinking. So much the better. The boy would not be an easy bait. He'd stand up to de Kersausson and negotiate his own terms.

******

Commandant Jean Paul Moulin admitted frankly that what first had appeared to him a rather roguish gambit was rather a well conceived operation. Despite the fact that Ryan would probably risk his health and neck inside the Miami Dade Detention Facility at Bunker Hill, everything else was dead logic, feasible and clever.

Delveaux would provide their corrupted Customs Official another address then the one forseen and hopefully Rossinski would send out a henchman or two to check before communicating CSI Wolfe's official whereabouts to Serge Poniatowski. They'd then pull a nice show for Rossinski, who'd hopefully keep his Miami buddies posted and in the end, Ryan would "kill" Serge in a sea of blood and gore only to be immediately arrested by Jean Paul and some of his men. Being a citizen of the US and having killed another US citizen on the soil of France, Ryan would be immediately extradited to his own people in Miami who could then make their 'bad cop' show - hopefully with good press coverage – before shoving his childhood friend in orange overalls into Bunker Hill.

The show between Serge and Ryan would go on long enough for Rossinski shipping his Mistrals off to Sarnoff's second in Miami and as soon as the US Customs or Police would have seized the shipping Ryan and Serge would play their trick. The French press would most certainly not get a recognisable photo of Poniatowski's 'dead' body.

It was important to protect the hide of that turncoat mobster Tim Belkin who was now probably sipping a stiff Scotch in their Fontainbleau safe house, so there would be a lot of blood and gore and destruction on Serge's face…..and a phone call or two later, the stuff would turn up on the front page of several French newspapers' international editions…

As soon as they had Ryan in front of the television spotlights in Miami and everybody throwing mud on a bad copper, Delveaux and his RAID would go in and take down Rossinski together with his club of associates. Book I closed! Then all that was left was Ryan staining alive and kicking until the press –once more-had made a brawl about the Russian mob, the aborted weapons deal between Rossinski and Sarnoff's bunch, excellent police cooperation and the destruction of a highly dangerous criminal organisation in France thanks to the excellent cooperation of the MDPD….

As far as Jean Paul had understood the boss and Ryan's father, Oleg Ivanov would go crack-a-nuts in Moscow within the hour of the first publication of this type of news. And if the press even managed to mention his name, he'd be ravaging mad….and he would declare open season on Ivan Sarnoff , who –as the commanding mobster in Miami- would be held responsible for the disaster without the slightest remorse.

Probably a couple of other heads over in Miami would fall in the maelstrom too and they'd be faced with a temporary shift of power, before the financial intelligence on the mob would bring down the remainders. All in all a most excellent plan!

Hopefully Ryan would make it through the night! The problem with such most excellent plans was always, that there was somewhere in the middle a pawn, who was obliged to risk his neck in order to make things happen.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 27 Rotten Apples**

*

The corrupt customs official had been slightly surprised, when Commandant Delveaux had contacted him during the early morning hours in order to change plans. The address he was about to communicate to Alexandr Rossinski's man was no longer that of an isolate country home close to Orléans, but a hotel in Paris' infamous 9th Arrondisement, on rue Saint Denis close to Place Pigalle. Already the name of the hotel said it all and gave the keener observer an inside view into the habitual customers: 'Hotel de l'Etoile'…a cheap, dirty and flea-ridden shackle that rented out rooms by the hour to downtrodden and AIDS-infected prostitutes; a hunched three-or four story building, gone to racks and ruin over the years and making money from illegal immigrants, junkkies or low level criminals on the run.

The environment –rue Saint Denis and the Pigalle quarters- were equally sordid and downtrodden: sex shops, penny arcades, lousy sales stalls with cheap merchandise run by North Africans, second hand shops and at night time…..the scum of the earth on the sidewalks: male and female whore, con men, disenchanted and brutalized uniformed police men, drug dealers and other dangerous beasts.

The customs official understood perfectly well, why Delveaux had chosen this nightmare within a city of light and splendour: There was no better place for a man in Paris to disappear, make himself invisible and live anonymously for quite some time on meagre funds! The address he would give to Rossinski's man at 9 o'clock in the morning was absolutely perfect.

The customs official hoped, that the Russians would find at this place, what they were looking for or else he and his family would be caught between two stools.

He could not even trick the police and provide Rossinski with the man's real address in France – a lavish place at Saint Nom La Breteche, right inside the spacious park of the Chateau de Saint Nom….where only very old money was ably to reside, for the last property in there had been sold about 60 years ago at the end of WW II.

His telephone at work and at home were most probably wiretapped and so was his cell phone. It was easy to eavesdrop on cell phones!

His 17 years old son spoke about this and the transparency of the internet all the time.

And he did not dare to go to the address he knew in Paris. He'd never been there and had never ever wanted to go there. He was not a courageous man, just a desperate one who had taken money from the wrong person in a moment of need.

When the clock in his office showed 5 minutes to 9, he took his pack of cigarettes and his lighter and trotted downstairs to one of the smoker's corners outside the Customs premises. Since January 1st 2007 it was formally forbidden in France to smoke on administrative premises. He put the piece of paper with the address into his trouser pocket.

When he arrived downstairs, he could already see Rossinski's go between, a chap in the attire of the CDG cargo ground personnel. And not far away from the man, hardly hidden by the smoking crowd of customs personnel loitered another guy in a t-shirt and blue jeans with muscular arms and a tribal tattoo on his biceps. The guy smelled literally plain-clothes policeman. The corrupt customs official had the feeling that the tattooed hulk gave him a hard stare. He walked over to his contact.

**

As Horatio had foreseen, the Chief had been the least of his problems. He had given him his blessings and agreed to run the operation according to the French plan before hurrying of to Miami Airport, where he intended to meet the Paris Police Prefect de Kersausson, who had decided to fly over to Miami in a nick in order to formalise their cooperation.

Horatio had thanked his boss and left him to his own devices and the upcoming 'high-level encounter'. Commander Regine Marais from the French Consulate had already informed him that she'd organise his meeting with de Kersausson in the evening and at a discreet place, somewhere out of town and away from the prying eyes of the Russian mob. He was to wait for her phonecall and someone from the consulate would pick up Caine at a place somewhere downtown Miami.

Stetler had been a much more difficult issue and the encounter had been very painful for Horatio.

It would have been easier, if Rick had simply given him one of his habitual speeches and one of his ritualistic reprimands. He could even have accepted one of the IAB Sergeant's occasional and highly unexpected demonstrations of straightforward, outright and honest compassion. The last one dating from Horatio's not-so-official trip to Rio together with Eric.

But Stetler had chosen neither of these three manageable approaches!

First he had questioned Horatio almost the same way, de Kersausson had done some days earlier by phone. Rick had been looking hard on the medical certificate by Brown, who was obviously a highly reputed MD and known to the sergeant and then into the Lieutenant's eyes with an expression of deep dissapointment.

"How came, that you simply overlooked Wolfe's state of physical distress?" Had been the first question.

"We were simply too busy with the case…I had a potential suspect on the run etc., etc.,…." Horatio had given him the classic answer, but Stetler insisted.

"I got a glance of about 30 seconds of Wolfe, when your CSI fetched himself a coffee and I almost stopped you guy to ask him if he was alright. He looked like a ghost!"

Caine was slightly surprised by this answer. He could not fathom the IAB Sergeant observing the people in the Crime Lab so carefully, as to realize if or not something was wrong with them. IAB, like IRS worked mainly on paper and not with life beings!

"You should have told me, Rick!" He replied, surprised by his own public admission of neglect.

"Wolfe's not mine, H." Stetler had given him a look he would not forget easily. It had been a mixture of disappointment and triumph. Rick had beaten him in the written test and in the orals for Lieutenant and nonetheless the Chief had chosen him over Stetler. This was one of many little occasions, when Rick relished in making Horatio feel that it was not the simply choosing of the Chief that would decide in the end, who was really the better police officer. Perhaps he was right….

Stetler's second question had been less of a surprise. He had enquired, how they could have lost a huge CSI hummer together with a CSI officer for about 12 hours without realising it.

Horatio had a logic and ready made answer: The Megan Hamilton/Zoe Belle case had been solved and Wolfe had been gone to bring in Cameron West, a photographer, who was neither armed nor considered dangerous. Since the whole team had been on double shift, he'd told everybody to go home and take a rest. He had assumed that Wolfe would have brought in West and then taken the Hummer to go home and get some sleep.

Stetler had risen a very sceptical eyebrow at this answer but for one reason or another refrained from digging deeper into the subject.

Horatio assumed that Rick knew the whole and ugly truth without him speaking it out aloud: Basically nobody really cared about Wolfe! He was still the patroller with the Biochemistry diplomas who'd replaced Tim Speedle!

This was hardly a secret in the Crime Lab and Rick had been probably one of the first outsiders to the team itself, who'd understood: Horatio had shown him Yelina's surveillance tape with Ryan and Litton and asked the IAB sergeant to take action. Stetler had done what he had asked him to do and fired Ryan literally within the hour.

But before setting out and breaking Wolfe on pettiness that had more to do with the fact, that Horatio was pissed with the young officer because he refused to talk to him then with his actual gambling, Stetler had made the remark that compared to Delko's infractions with the MDPD's standards, Wolfe's was childishness hardly worth to be mentioned and even less noteworthy then Valera's hiccup with a rape victim's DNA that had got her suspended without pay for three months. Horatio knew that Stetler had been right then and was right now, but he could not help it: He was capable of pardoning his CSIs about everything and would go wherever he had to go and do whatever he had to do to protect them, but he would never ever pardon one of them, if they chose to luck out instead of confiding in him. And this was what Wolfe had done, was still doing…persistently…for five years now: He was a mystery within a veil inside a cloud…

The third question had been pretty much a surprise for Horatio.

"How is Wolfe?"

Since Horatio himself had no clue, he gave Stetler a honest answer. "I don't know Rick! He's pretty beaten up and it will take time to heal, so I presume, he's not terribly well. I send him to stay with his family…." He had decided to place this sentence in order to make it less of a surprise to Stetler to get Wolfe back from France in handcuffs in a couple of weeks.

"He's still family in Europe? Maybe better if he's far off for a while." Rick had replied without even a hint of surprise. Well, it was no secret to those who had access to the personal files of the MDPD officers that Ryan Wolfe had a European connection and money from a heritage of his Granny who'd been living overseas.

Stetler had chatted on. Something that had been a bit of a surprise for Horatio. Rick did not chat with him under normal circumstances.

"You know, already when you hired him, I was wondering, why someone who has a pretty close link with the Guggenheim family does patrol? Did you know that his granny was the eldest daughter of Sir Robert Mond and Marie-Louise Guggenheim….big money and first and foremost very old money!"

Horatio had not been aware of this fact. He had rather been interested in Wolfe's academic credentials and degrees from Boston College, so he had shaken his head. Stetler had continued cheerfully.

"Well, the only hick-up on Wolfe's CV is perhaps, that while he has a mother – Mary Wolfe, deceased when he was 3 years old – he has no father mentioned on his birth certificate. I suppose the poor bloke who fathered your CSI was not good enough for this high-flying family and perhaps Ryan chose to be a cooper just to spite that bunch. Would somehow suit his character and attitude. Don't you think so?"

Caine nodded. Maybe!

His CSI had gone through Boston College on scholarships and the explanation that he walked patrol to finance the rest of his curriculum had seemed rather logic five years ago and had endeared the younger man to Horatio.

It took a lot of energy, courage and drive to continue university level education and work a demanding full-time job. He knew! He had been obliged to walk the same twisted and hard paths after his father had killed his mother in a fit of alcoholic rage….

And while the small talk about Wolfe's personal history would have been certainly highly entertaining, Horatio had stopped Stetler rather bluntly and told him, why he had come and what they intended to do.

Stetler had frowned as usual when undercover work was brought up but finally had given in and conceded.

"If Wolfe agrees to get himself crucified by the press and smeared with mud by his colleagues…..do so H. Anyhow, even if I would like to stop you, I cannot, because the Chief has already talked to me. I do not think that you play fair with Wolfe…you never have…, but even I cannot prevent you from sacrificing a good man."

Horatio had left Stetler's office in a rather rotten mood. He had the go from his hierarchy including the IAB. Regine Marais had also informed him, that Wolfe had agreed to play along when de Kersausson had asked him and that over in France things were already set in motion.

So all that was left to do, was to meet with Erica Sykes and convince the CBS 4 journalist to play along with him. He hoped, that Erica would agree for Ryan's sake. She most certainly would not do it for him; there were too many grudges, grievances, anger, resentment and that fatal cleverly drafted restraining order by his friend Judge Ewan McGregor that had put Erica into a most painful dilemma…..either to keep her job and let go Ryan Wolfe or loose her job and nonetheless be obliged to let go of his CSI! The restraining order had not jet expired! Horatio had been careful to have it renewed every six months, understanding very well the drive of Sikes and the stubborn attitude of Wolfe….now he'd be obliged to have it cancelled….at least long enough to pull their show with Sarnoff's mob!

He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but rather one filled with dark sarcasm. Erica would be a piece of work, but the state attorney part was easiest and he would keep it till the end: Derek Powell was the best choice. He knew that he could trust this man 100% and he might be easier to convince then Ewan McGregor, who'd perhaps react like Stetler or Alex Woods, not understanding that sometimes for the greater good it was necessary to make sacrifices at the lower level.

***

Calleigh Dusquene received Kenwall Dusquene's desperate phone when she was preparing to go to work. Eric was just about to fix the breakfast downstairs in the kitchen. She could not believe, what her father told her. She cut the water for her shower, went back into the bedroom and sank onto the bed. For several minutes –they seemed unending to Calleigh- she simply listened. Her stomach contracted at this strange 'déjà-vue'.

Five years ago she'd woken up to a similar nightmare, when she had found her father sitting in the visitor's zone of the CrimLab, downtrodden, confused and disheveled. Now he seemed to be in a similar state of confusion to find similar blood traces on his car, but this time he had not even the faintest memory of having hit something or someone in his bedazzled brain. And there was something even worse, then five years ago: Duke had blood on his clothes and hands!

'You stay where you are, Dad. You do not move, you do not call anybody else. I'll be with you immediately!" Calleigh managed to tell Duke. Her voice, habitually calm and composed was at the edge of hysteria. She closed the cell, skipped the shower, pulled on some clothes and tried to take even breaths and calm down a bit. Then she made her way down to the kitchen.

Eric Delko's smile turned to ice, when he looked into the ashen face of his lover. Before he could ask her, what was going on, she told him everything. She was deeply distressed and had not the faintest idea what to do.

It took Eric hardly half a minute to take a decision, He wanted to opened his cell and pushed the speed dial for Lieutenant Horatio Caine, but Calleigh caught his hand.

'Don't Eric!" She pleaded, "I must first go and see my father and find out, what happened."

Delko understood his lover from an emotional point of view, but he also understood that she was potentially on her way to make a huge mistake that could have serious reprcussions upon her career with the MDPD CrimeLab.

His stomach contracted at this strange 'déjà-vue': It had happened five years ago, shortly after Tim Speedle had been killed!

Attorney Kenwall Duquesne had shown up in the CSI offices one morning, looking for his daughter. Disheveled and upset, he had told her a story about having killed someone with his car. Calleigh had looked at the car and easily seen that he'd hit someone or something, and she had found blood on the tires. Ashamed, her father had told her that he'd had his first drink after six months of abstinence. In order to cover up, she told him to immediately take another and watched him do so. Then she had brought him into the station, saying that he wanted to turn himself in to Frank Tripp. Horatio had immediately smelled the scotch on Duke's breath, but Calleigh had told him a flat out lie, underlining that what he smelled was just the drink she'd seen him take outside for courage. To Calleigh's annoyance, Horatio had hired Ryan Wolfe on the spot that day and put him on Duke's case!

Eric gave a deep sigh: He remembered everything so well, not because of Kenwall Dusquene's predicament, but because of Wolfe…..Wolfe that arrogant, little bastard who'd now definitively crossed a line, first by destroying his interrogation of the guy who finally turned out guilty of homicide and then this giant breach of protocol, when he'd taken the bullet casing from the crime scene, holding on to it for a whole day, while they'd been spinning their wheel. Because of Wolfe's actions an innocent man had been accused and arrested. Fuck Wolfe and his extenuating circumstances and …fuck Horatio, who'd told them to let it be and let Wolfe in peace.

Eric took Calleigh into his arms and kissed her gently. 'Calm down, love! We are going to help your father. Don't worry…..perhaps it's like last time and he was just to drunk to realise and he'd hit an animal or something.'

He tried to speak in a soothing and comforting voice, taking some stress off her, but inside he was burning with rage. Ever since Horatio had taken that little rattlesnake Wolfe into the team to replace Spee, he'd given him a favourite treatment. He'd passed over all the shit that little sneak had produced, and had never ever made him face the consequences of his actions or held him accountable for what he'd done.

When Wolfe had been infatuated with that nasty news chick Sikes, he'd been nothing but trouble….leaking like an old bucket to the press probably in exchange for his evening shag … and H. had done nothing.

When Wolfe had lost it and seriously roughed up a colleague over some scrawny teen, who'd turned out to be a cold blooded murdered….H. had not only done nothing, he'd helped that little asshole out of his predicament and swept it all under the rug.

When Wolfe had been finally and very rightfully fired from the lab for his gambling problem, instead of letting him face the consequences and sink, H. had not only provided him with the occasional job to keep afloat, he'd also insisted with the hierarchy to whitwash the rat and bring him back.

And when Wolfe had been looking after that little brat, while his cocaine addict father, this slippery track vet Mark Gantry had landed himself in some pretty big trouble related to what appeared to have been some old debts…..well Eric prefered not even to think about this one: Wolfe had been stupid enough –once again- and been pulled into the fray by his so-called friend, leaping –without even a hint of brains- to Gantry's defense after a mobster has come to kill the vet. And what had been the consequences of Horatio catching Wolfe exchanging blows with the mobster? Nothing more serious than Horatio asking the sneak for an explanation, so Wolfe once again lucked out in that regard. Another CSI boss –less understanding and good-hearted then H. - might have been a little more thrown by seeing his employee engaged in a brawl with a mobster!

Deep inside Eric was convinced that Wolfe was the culprit concerning their actual problems with the Russian mob and Ivan Sarnoff. If he'd stayed clear of gambling and Gantry, they'd have no problems at all….just another convicted culprit inside the Dade Detention Facility after a successful CSI enquiry; end of story!

Eric motioned to Calleigh to sit in the passenger seat of the silver Hummer, taking the wheel himself. She seemed to be slightly more composed after his soothing words and loving gestures. They had to take care of Kenwall now. Only when they had fully figured out what may have happened, he'd call in H. and should need arise see to it, that a sympathetic police officer was put in charge…someone like Tripp.

****

Pigalle is an area in Paris on the border between the 9th and the 18th arrondissements. It was named after the sculptor Jean-Baptiste Pigalle and famous for being a touristic red-light district, with many sex shops on the Place and the adjunct main boulevards with prostitutes of the lowest kind operating in the side streets. Ryan had chosen the Paris Underground to get to his home for the next couple of days, after Jean-Paul Moulin had dropped him off at Porte de Saint Cloud. They'd discussed everything far from prying ears and eyes at Saint Nom. Ryan knew, that Rossinski was already discussing hard with one of Sarnoff's lieutenants in Miami –Jacob Jarovsky – and that they were well on their way to conclude the sale of the stolen ground-to-air missiles. De Kersausson had left last night for Miami to arrange the business with MDPD and H. and a corrupt customs official –under pressure from Delveaux- was transmitting his official whereabouts to the French branch of the Ismaiylovskaya. Poniatowski was standing by, pulling a show of 'Russian Mobster in Paris' and probably dancing around Montmartre and 'Singing in the Rain' and he had to pull the side-show of man on the run and bad copper.

Ryan passed his hand over his untidy chin. He'd not been shaving ever since that bastard Dima Belkin had slammed his fist repeatedly into his jaw and he still felt not like cleaning up decently. He had to look his part in the show! Wolfe left the metro station close to the Paris Great Boulevards and the Opera, a small bag with some change slung over his shoulder, his Glock –courtesy Paris Police Forces- comfortingly stuck into the belt of his jeans and a rather decent forgery of a French passport on the name Joel Martin in the breast pocket of his well-worn and grubby leather jacket.

He took immediately to the left behind the UGC cinema. It was a shortcut and he knew Paris well. He'd make a first stop at O'Connelly's, an Irish pub on Rue Saint Denis, which had a bit of a reputation, because its hosts were either true Irishmen or diehard criminals. It was a place his father had strictly forbidden him to go to, when in his teens…..this was perhaps his once-in-a-lifetime chance to see the place!

Claire had pulled his amateur stitches with a slight frown on her brow. She had not even tried to talk him out of this, just taken his face between her hands, placed a soft, gently kiss upon his front and asked him to be careful and wise. She was perfectly aware of the risks and dangers of this plan, but she was also the most insightful woman he'd ever met in his life and perfectly aware of the fact, that for all the love and tenderness between the two of them….she could neither talk him out of this, nor blackmail him into a tactical retreat. Long before Paddy had even spared a single thought to the fact that his son was no longer a child but a grown up man with a mind of his own, Claire had understood.

It had always been Claire who'd managed to make his father see reason: When he'd wanted to study in the US, Paddy had thrown an incredibly childish fit of rage, completely panicked over the idea to see his only child further away then arm's length. It had been Claire and her patience that had finally made his old man overcome his almost possessive fear! When he'd told them, that he'd throw his PhD to enter Boston Police Academy, Paddy had gone ballistic, either sulkily refusing to speak to Ryan or drowning his son in scary stories about the risks and dangers of being a police man. When Ryan had dared to just once mention Paddy's own days in the IRA and the risks and dangers of being a professional terrorist, it had earned him the first ever slap in the face from his father…..at age 23!

Claire had just told him that he'd chosen a tough road in life and that it was not easy to be a police officer. But she'd also encouraged him to make his own destiny and follow his heart. It had been Claire, not Paddy who'd arranged with Erwan de Kersausson and some friends in the French Ministry of Interior to skilfully substitute his place of birth Dublin with Boston on a copy of his birth certificate. And since the IRA was a banned organisation in the US, the DST had taken off his father's identity from the document. Claire had simply understood that as much as he loved his father, he could not exist in Paddy's shadow till the end of times….

Ryan threw a casual glance at a group of hookers, who stood outside a Bistro smoking and waiting for the next client. One of the girls gave him a smile and he smiled back. He'd never judged prostitutes. Most of them had no choice and there was no need to treat them badly, just because they were obliged to sell their bodies for a living. He too sold his health and skin…

When he stood in front of the 'Hotel de l'Etoile' he shuddered. That was really a rat hole! He made a mental note to knock the living daylights out of Delveaux, when they met again. He'd agreed to put his life at stake, but this did not include sleeping in a ruin that could tumble down at the sneeze of a mouse. The dustbins in front were right out disgusting and the odour emanating from the "hall" a mix of shit, vomit and old cooking oil. He entered and slammed his bag on the table in order to wake up a fat, smelly bloke who slumbered at the reception desk in front of a television set turned onto some Arabic satellite program.

The room was even more glorious then the hotel hall: Ryan simply flung his bag onto the shabby bed, not even taking the pains to put anything into the wardrobe. He was convinced that this was not a wardrobe at all, but the lodging of a surprising variety of household pests.

He carefully sat on the bed, not to destroy it with his body's weight before nightfall. First things had to come first: He pulled out a secure cell phone and send a texto to Moulin and Delveaux to tell them that he was where they wanted him to be.

Then he literally fled the shack. It was much better to explore the area and find out where a bit of illegal gambling was going on and where they'd not be too wary and let him join in. He had strict orders to show a 'bad boy' image, should Rossinski send some of his own guys after him to observe before giving him away to Poniatowski so they could stage-manage the gory murder that would get him back to Miami in handcuffs!


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 28 For Ryan

*

O'Connelly's was a fine Irish pub!

Ryan smiled into his half-empty glass of Guinness. The old man had been right! This was most certainly not a hangout for teens! Part of the customers looked very honourable, just being here for the fun and the pretty good life folk music on a small scene….but the rest looked….less then enthralling. He chuckled. He didn't look all that enthralling either. But at least, he was able to hide behind some 'extenuating circumstances' and the exigencies of his job.

He decided to get himself another beer and a sandwich, hang around for a while and keep his eyes open if ever someone might strike his eye as being perhaps a odd-job man for that Paris-based Russian mobster Rossinski.

While Ryan knew, that he'd not to worry overmuch – as with Serge Poniatowski, there was an undercover officer of Delveaux's around to keep his options open – he'd rather be a bit more independent, in case…..

Paddy had warned him about a specific mindset with Russian mobsters: Some low level scoundrel might try and finish a job that was not his just in order to impress the hierarchy and fall upstairs. It did not happen very often, for failure in such a daring enterprise meant always, that the concerned scoundrel would met an untimely and gory end, but it happened…..

He handed the barkeeper some money, took his second beer and his sandwich and found himself a comfortable place, from where he could observe the door and the scene. He was rather fond of Irish folk music and the four guys who were playing reminded him a bit of the Wolfe Tones, a group he'd liked as a teenager.

He munched the roast beef-salad-tomatoes sandwich contently. It was as good as the beer.

Going out into the field had worked wonders –together with Claire's caring ministrations over the last few days: He felt still a bit sore and battle worn, but his body had somehow decided to cooperate and forget about the twelve hours in that closed-down sugar refinery in Miami.

While he would probably not be able to break the chrono in a sprint, at least his poise was back. He gave his watch a cursory glance. It was half past seven. In another hour or two, he'd leave O'Connelly's and wander up rue Saint Denis towards Place Pigalle. There were a couple of gambling tables hidden in some of the side streets. A hand or two of poker after his long and forced abstinence over in Miami would be sufficiently distracting to take his mind of the lousy hotel and the even lousier bed, where he'd be obliged to spend the night.

Anyhow, he doubted it, that Rossinski's henchmen would already be around or even try and do something his first night out in the wild.

**

Calleigh was standing in front of her father, shaking her head and giving him a deeply disappointed look.

"You took the wheel after a bottle of wine and three stiff glasses of Scotch! You promised me….."

Duke leaned against the Hummer. His shoulders slumped, his face guilt-ridden and decomposed. "I do not remember Calleigh. I have not the faintest idea, if or not I took the wheel. My last souvenirs are of a discussion with Parker Yates at O'Reilly's down in Coral Gables." He tried so hard to remember more but nothing would come.

"Calleigh!" Eric called out. " Would you please come here for a sec! I want to show you something."

Calleigh immediately turned away from her father. Duke's face went ashen. He had the feeling that an invisible hand was trying to strangle him. Breathing had become an effort.

Eric had been going over the white Range Rover quickly. He'd taken a sample of blood discreetly, so that nobody else would realise, if they had to call in the colleagues. It was indeed human blood. There were also some traces on the front light, but no splinters around the car. He had decided to look around the car. At this place, the seaside was not sand but fairly sharp cobble stones. Nobody in or around Miami would chose this place for an outing or for a bath in the ocean. It was pretty far off with the closest house at about 800 m. He pointed his finger at a cobble stone about the size of a fist. The water had come close with the tide and within the hour the blood smeared over the stone would have gone.

"I do not know what happened or in what trouble your father has gotten himself, Calleigh…" He said softly, "…but I am afraid that we have no other choice. The blood on the car and on this stone are human. I've been walking around and found no trace whatsoever of a potential victim of an accident. The front light was broken somewhere else…no splinters….this can be almost everything, maybe even a carjacking….somebody needs to process Duke urgently."

Calleigh was on the verge of tears. She held on to Eric Delko's arm. "You are right, love! Let's call Horatio and Tripp."

***

Erica Sykes had been rather surprised when her secretary announced Lieutenant Horatio Caine. She was hardly fond of that police officer who'd proven not only a nuisance, as some of his kind were, but a right out determined and unblinking enemy with hardly any scruples and a considerable amount of malice. He had gotten his will about two years ago with a brutal but nonetheless perfectly legal restraining order, that had not only broken her relationship but also –by a neigh-her professional career as an investigation journalist.

Erica thoughtfully caressed the sober but beautiful platinum ring on her left ring finger. Ryan had given it to her four years ago. She'd been almost mad at him that night: It was custom made by an artist, who worked for the world famous French jeweller Chopard in Paris, Place Vendome after a design of Ryan and set with tiny, but exquisitely cut precious stones, that sparkled like a rainbow –Amethyst, Emerald, Aquamarin, Citrin, Rubin and Diamond. She'd almost strangled him, after kissing him and accepting his proposal. That mad rabbit worked on a salary from Dade County and she'd have accepted, even if he'd just given her a polished metal ring from a Coke can.

She looked on the silver framed photograph on her desk. Those had been better days. Like the engagement ring, she'd never taken off this picture. They'd been in Rome together. The photo had been taken by a friend of Ryan's on the Piazza di Navona in front of Bernini's lavish fountain. He'd taken her on the trip after she'd gotten her job with CBS TV 4, undigging somewhere two cheap air tickets to Italy and swapping lodgings with an acquaintance from Boston College who wanted to spend a week in Miami. She smiled. It had been a wonderful Roman holiday, although she'd seen none of the tourist hideouts, but only the Rome the Romans enjoyed. Their guide had been another biochemist friend of Ryan's from their days at university.

Erica gave a deep, downhearted sigh. She missed Ryan desperately. "Put him through, please….if he insists!" What a completely ludicrous situation! To miss someone desperately, who lived in the same town and at hardly 30 minutes walk from her place!

Once upon a time it had been their place. They had bought it together, after she'd accepted the ring and his proposal. When she'd shown him the copy of the restraining order, Ryan had not even said a word. Erica knew, that she'd made the biggest mistake of her life that very evening. Instead of mulling things over and thinking it through, she'd thrown an entirely childish fit, whining and complaining about her career and all the sacrifices she'd made to get her job with CBS. When she'd returned from work the next day, Ryan was gone. He'd left a legal document on the kitchen table, that stated in simple words that the house and everything inside was all hers. He'd even left her his two cats -Al and Capone- to whom she'd grown tremendously attached over the years.

"Yes!" She replied coldly, when she heard Lieutenant Horatio Caines voice on the other end of the line.

"Mrs. Sykes, I am terribly sorry to disturb you, but it is very important that we met!"

"Lieutenant Caine…" Erica replied in a voice that could have cut a raw diamond, " I am perfectly aware that you do not even know the meaning of 'feeling sorry'…..but state your business anyhow. I will try and listen…." Her professional mind was taking over, temporarily pushing back Erica's more emotional side.

Caine spoke for a couple of minutes. She listened attentively and did not interrupt. It had been a broad outline of his request without names nor details. Erica could not pretend honestly that what she had heard was very much enticing. "I may be able to get you in touch with several colleagues, who'd gladly comply, Lieutenant."

"I believe, you could, Miss Sikes!" Horatio replied calmly on the other end of the line. "But perhaps in this particular case, you may be a better partner in crime then any of them."

"Why do you think so?"

Caine seemed to take his own counsel for a moment. She heard him breathing softly through the phone.

"Miss Sikes, I prefer the two of us meet and discuss this face to face. This is not a conversation that should be conducted by phone. There is a certain amount of risk in this, not only for our officer, but also for the journalist, who'd be in on the details. You may wish to hear me out and then take your final decision."

Erica gave a deep sigh. "Where do you want us to meet, Lieutenant?"

Horatio gave her an address. She agreed.

Half an hour later, the former investigation journalist of CBS TV 4, who had been recently promoted to anchor woman of the 13 hours news journal found herself in front of a grave and very thoughtful man, whose eyes expressed sincere gratitude for her having come. He had chosen a small restaurant –the owner was a former cop and long time friend of Horatio's- at about 10 minutes walk from his home. He'd chosen the place, because he could be 100 % sure of its owner's complete discretion and it was relatively difficult to survey without being seen.

The former cop turned restaurant owner had even done him the favour to close down for lunch, so he and Erica Sykes were alone in the nice and cosy place.

"I am grateful that you have come…" Horatio pulled the chair for Erica, "…notwithstanding certain grievances between you and I!"

" I am not a complete prat, whatever you may believe Lieutenant!" She replied gracefully, "As a journalist I have to do my job, as you have to do yours. But I am perfectly aware of the fact, that sometimes it does not come down to truthfulness, but to an intelligent and mature cooperation between the press and law enforcement. Please tell me and I will see to which extend we can help you."

Horatio took his seat. He had not seen Erica Sykes in person for about two years, since Judge Ewan McGregor's cleverly drafted restraining order had not only literally banned the journalist from all Miami crime scenes but also from the private life of one CSI Wolfe.

He was perfectly aware of the inherent cruelty of the wording they had chosen and his heart knew perfectly well that what he'd done had been absolutely despicable at a human level, but it had been necessary to ensure the peace and calm of his team, taking off at least some of the edges from the adversity that had been existing between Eric and Wolfe literally since the day he'd hired the patroller into his team.

Eric had always been the most brutal and the most unforgiving critic of Ryan and the sheer existence of Erica had at one moment brought this adversity to such a point, that even the MDPD chief had been made aware of it.

Considering this and the fact that Eric would probably not have won against Ryan , if ever Stetler would have taken upon himself to pass closer review upon his CSI Day Shift, Horatio had jumped upon the occasion of Natahlia BoaVista's sister's kidnapping, Erica's news flash and the fact that he'd seen Ryan exchange a couple of words with the journalist in front of the MDPD. He lowered his head slightly. Before starting this discussion for real, he had to have his conscious clear!

"Mrs. Sykes, " He asked politely, "…would you be willing to tell me, what you and CSI Wolfe were talking about on November 19th, 2006, when you revealed that CSI BoaVista's sister Anya was one of the victims of serial killer LaPorte?"

"What?" Erica almost jumped from her chair. She'd been expecting many things from Lieutenant Caine, but not this question.

"Please, ! Do not rush to conclusions." Horatio tried hard to make the journalist calm down.

He was perfectly aware of the fact that the news media and the police had occasionally different agendas. He was also aware of the fact that Erica had done nothing bad that day by informing the public about the identities of the missing women. But he also relished in demonising the media ever since he'd caught a reporter in March 2003 trafficking drugs and basically creating his own headlines?

Erica gave Caine a distraught look. The fingers of her right hand automatically and protectively closing over her engagement ring. So this was the issue! More mud throwing at hers and Ryan's relationship, also they had been extremely discreet about it and never ever shown anything in public. They'd hardly exchanged 50 professionally oriented words over three years, most of them during the time when Caine's team via Ryan had borrowed some of the most expensive sono and recording equipment of CBS TV 4, busting it happily, while hunting down the Mala Noche.

She pulled the engagement ring from her finger and hid it inside her right hand, clenched into a tight fist. " Ryan told me, that I'd put Anya BoaVista's life at stake if ever I'd broadcast her name in relation with the serial killings and kidnappings under investigation!" She gave the CSI lieutenant a hard glance. "He basically told me to desist and let the story slumber until everything was over….."

Caine rose an eyebrow. "That's all?"

Erica put her ring back. She had the curious feeling that Caine was somewhat surprised and Ryan's professional integrity not the key issue of their discussion. There was no need to protect him at the moment. Her face hardened and her voice became once more cutting.

"What do you think, Lieutenant? That all we had to do was discuss you and the issues of your blasted Lab?" All frustration, grief, sadness and hatred that had built-up in Erica over the last 24 months spilled out in a giant tsunami. "You, Sir, " she hissed, " have your entire life orbiting around this lab and your job. Maybe you have nothing else left and nobody to care for. If this should be the case, then please accept my sincere condolences! But there are still some people on this planet who have very simple, down to earth and pretty much uneventful relationships that orbit around so basic concepts as love, attraction, mutual respect and tenderness…there are still some idiots, who simply intend to marry, have kids and live happily ever after…..just like in childish fairy tales! What do you think, I and Ryan was about….a news flash! I have known your CSI since the tender age of 22, when we both attended university together….so do not insinuate that he and I were about some prime time glory!" She literally spit the last words, snatching her handbag and raising form the chair with the firm intend to leave this unfeeling brute to his own devices and return to her office.

Horatio managed to catch Erica's arm. He was pretty much aware that he was a bit rough on a woman, but he needed her to sit down and listen. This time, it was important to speak and listen and not just to jump to some hasty conclusions derived from appearances and rumours.

"Erica, please! I was absolutely not aware of anything. Ryan does not confide in me. I have not the slightest idea concerning his private life."

She relented, dropped her handbag and settled in her chair, also her heart told her to slap that man right over his face and go. "Why should he?" She whispered almost inaudibly. She struggled to dam the tears that were welling up in her eyes. She'd contained them for two years. Now her strength was fading.

Horatio felt almost sorry for the fragile, young woman in front of him. He had been perfectly honest, when telling her that he'd been not into any secrets. He had seen the engagement ring, but basically thought nothing of it and Ryan Wolfe never ever had even made a remark concerning hisr relationship with Erica Sikes. She could have been everything to his CSI; a friend, a lover or just a casual acquaintance.

But at this very moment he understood that she would help him and that she would do whatever it needed to give Wolfe the cover to go into BunkerHill and –hopefully-come back unscathed. He ignored her distress and started to explain. The planned lunch and the menu were forgotten and his friend, the restaurant owner had retreated somewhere to give them even more privacy.

Two hours latter Erica lifted finally her head, rubbed her eyes and nodded simply.

"I'll do it, Lieutenant Caine! I do not mind if it is dangerous. I can take care of myself." She was completely horrified by the mere thought of it and she was furious with the Lieutenant, because he was cold blooded enough to put the life of one of his own at stake in such a ruthless manner, but she also understood that her part in the plan would probably shield Ryan from bearing the brunt 100%.

Part of the inmates at Bunker Hill would find it highly amusing that a cop was as bad as they were and they'd probably rather socialise with him then trying to kill him. The rest….well that was up to him and how he played them. Ryan was not a tremendously good actor and lying was not his forte, but he could be pretty tough if he chose to be and she preferred to trust in his shrewdness and survival instincts then to mull over what could happen, if….

Horatio was surprised.

Erica Sykes had agreed to play his game and she had not even attached a condition to her entire cooperation. He had the strange impression as if all she was truly interested in, was to get Wolfe through this gambit alive and healthy. He'd observed, how she had first hidden her engagement ring, while giving him a piece of her mind and then fingered it nervously during her little acceptance speech.

Looking at her, she appeared graver and much more mature then two years ago, when he'd thrown his fit over the news flash on Anya BoaVista. The cheek was gone and the malicious little sparkle in her eyes he had so thoroughly detested had been replaced with thoughtfulness.

Erica Sykes had changed a lot in a relatively short time…Ryan Wolfe too, now he thought about it. Erica's playfulness and punch had been replaced by …grief. She made upon him the impression of a widow, who was unwilling or unable to turn the page after the loss of a beloved husband. The longer he looked at her, the more he doubted that woman had moved on. She was obviously still desperately in love with Ryan.

He slipped his hand into his breast pocket and drew out the original of the document that had caused her so much despair, shredded it to pieces, threw it into an ashtray and cracked a match.

Erica gave Caine a sad little smile. " Do you really think it is so easy? Just destroying a piece of paper…..?"

"I do not know!" He replied honestly. "I believe that this is between you and Mr. Wolfe!"

***

It had been surprisingly easy to find a most infamous place a little bit off rue Saint Denis, where dubious characters had gathered for the nightly entertainment of gambling, alcohol and brawling. Paris was in this respect not so much different from Miami: The broader the shoulders of the bouncers, the squarer their jaws, the worse the reputation of the establishment. Habitually he never played in such places, preferring a civilised environment, civilised adversaries and a nice restaurant.

Horatio had been so entirely convinced that he was addict to gambling, that he'd send him off to 'Gamblers Anonymous', while he played only for the fun of it.

Ryan had been playing poker since the tender age of 10 and at 12 he'd started to bet his pocket money. At age 15 he'd been playing tournaments.

Poker was –just like chess, another game Ryan loved – a mixture between pure mathematics, psychology and sheer luck. And while a lucky amateur could win against an experienced player on sheer luck occasionally, it was habitually the one with the best memory and understanding of mathematics who came out victorious, if he had the necessary amount of nerve and cold blood to not show his cards before time.

The four brutish bouncers at the entrance had been very much understanding, when he'd given them a glance of a tightly rolled bundle of 100 € notes. It was not Ryan's money.!The Republic had provided him with sufficient funds to be credible during his undercover sojourn in the infamous 9th arrondissement and he was accountable for every cent of it. He'd even signed a paper that Jean Paul had pocketed with a roughish smile.

"You can keep the benefits, Ryan!" He had joked, before sending him off at the Metro Station.

Wolfe did not intend to keep the benefits!

After losing a convenient amount of money, in order to endear himself with his new friends, he had won it back, in order to make them understand that he was most certainly not a dunce. The atmosphere at the table was easy going and relaxed. The other players were from good to excellent, which gave him the leisure to pay more attention to his surroundings then to the game.

Figuring out, what backup Delveaux had send after him had been easy. Already when leaving O'Connelly's he'd recognised the junkie from the RER Station at Charles de Gaulle. Only this time, the guy posed as a bump. He was entirely convincing and at this very moment sitting in a doorway in front of the gambling arcade disguised as a pub…all wrapped in smelly blankets and with a small pancard "Need money for food!".

But he'd also figured out something else: The Russians were pretty reactive! After O'Conelly's he had toured two more bars and bantered with a prostitute in front of a third. And at that moment he had felt eyes on his back.

Instead of paying the hooker the unionised 20 € for a blow job, he'd paid her the money to describe exactly the people behind him. The girl had been most cooperative, probably because she had felt the cold, hard steel of the Glock, rather then physical enthusiasm concerning her proposal. She had done an excellent job, including a kindly peck on his cheek and a honest "Come back, whenever you like!"

They were two! Courtesy of the hooker's excellent description, he had managed to shake them off for some time in order to change the game and become hunter instead of prey. He had observed them, judged them and then made sure that they'd be back on track. Now they were standing at the bar, kindling beers they did not drink. Ryan found the situation outright funny. He stacked up, rearranged his hand and observed the other players for a while.

The two Russians were here to observe, not to act. There was no need to worry overmuch, but he would be on his guards nonetheless. Ryan decided to stay for another round of poker, before returning to his flea-ridden shack. He had a couple of textos to send; Delveaux, Moulin, Poniatowski… the team so to say! He enjoyed working with that bunch.

There was trust between them and he had not to be on his guards constantly, weighting every word, every gesture not to be misunderstood immediately and taken for a freak or branded as a sneak. It was perhaps easier, because JP, Francois, Serge and he shared a common background and similar education. His co-workers over in Miami were much more touchy and high-strung, the competition in the Crime Lab more intense and unfortunately too often at a personal level. This was perhaps due to the fact, that neither H., nor Delko or Calleigh had something that could be called a private life or interests beyond their job. They lived in and for the lab, while he simply worked there…even if he enjoyed his job and tried to do it well.

Bur Ryan was perfectly capable of leaving the MDPD and changing subject within the second: He never talked shop with his friends in Miami and never ever chose friends from the same professional background. This had been the reason, why his relationship with Marc Gantry had been a success, or why him and Erica had been a perfect match…..until she had become too enthralled with her job for CBS TV 4 and discovered, that the guy she'd been living with for 8 years was potentially a source of information…..

Ryan lost his round of poker with good graces, pushing a small pile of 20ies and 50ies over to the winner and telling the round, that he was looking forward to next evening and a better hand, also he'd lost with a Full House due to absentmindedness.

The thoughts of Erica had been responsible for the blunder, not the Russians, still scotched to the bar and kindling untouched glasses with their eyes fixed on him. Also it had been almost 2 years since he'd left her in order to avoid Erica a serious Catch-22 situation between her professional ambitions and her feelings for him, he was still not through with it….

The Russians followed him out into the street. The bump in the doorway also activated himself and shed his grumpy blanket. Ryan opened his jacket casually, in case he needed the Glock. No, he was absolutely not through with it….he was still in love with her and would be for a long time, no matter what.

He slightly accelerated his pace and turned to the left. The Russians followed. When he slowed down once again and took the direction of his flea-ridden shack with the pretentious name 'Hotel de L'Etoile' the Russians slowed down immediately and fell back. So he had been right. They were just observing!

His level of adrenalin went down and he pushed Erica and his desperate longing for that stubborn, little piece of a woman from his mind. Poniatowski would be first on the list. He wanted Serge to know, that Rossinski provided him with a shadow. That was good for their plan!


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 29 Setting the Pieces

*

Claire gave Padraig an expectant look. He had just closed his secret cell phone, she was not intended to know about shut and had made it disappear in the drawer of his desk.

The reformed IRA terrorist turned honourable and Professor of Celtic Studies gave his soon-to-be wife a huge smile. "You really want to know, Love? Wouldn't it be better if for once I'd keep a little secret from you….just like in old times!"

Claire cuffed the sixty years old child over the ears. " You tell!" She had been already very curious, when Paddy had seen off de Kersausson to the airport, but he had kept his lips tight.

The elder male of the O'Briain family left his chair, flung his arm around Claire's shoulder and shepherded her into the garden. " Well, we are going to make the life of Erwan and his newly found friends over in Miami very easy. Sean O'Flaherty, our most honourable Irish Member of the European Parliament has managed to convince some old friends to enter the game for the Mistrals and place their bid against the other interested parties. That Ismaiylovskaya guy over in Miami is pretty lively; he's not jet his hardware, but according to Valodija Tiomkin he's already put them up for sales on his bulletin board."

Claire unwound herself from Paddy's arm. " The PIRA is going to buy?" She was pretty much surprised by the revelation. As far as she knew, the Provisionals had let go of armed combat around 2007.

Padraig grinned. "Why not! Since even we of the inside have lost the complete overview about who's still fighting, who's laid down arms and become respectable and who's behind the latest shoot out in County Armagh, I am convinced that our Russian friends, as clever as may be, have not any more insight. It's a honourable deal, nothing else: You know, even without brandishing our rifles and blowing up the Brits, there are still comrades around who are very well informed about what's going on the shadowy market of illegal arms deals. People like O'Flaherty need money and financing to sit in the European Parliament and the other EU institutions to further our aims with less violent means."

"So you are basically selling off your stocks to other interested parties instead of turning them over to the Irish government for destruction." Claire was a clever woman and did not need a lecture in the darker shades of politicking.

Dr. Padraig O'Briain gave her another broad smile. There was not even a hint of guilt in his bright blue eyes. " That's the same as a flea market….if you do not need your old stuff any longer, you put up a stall on the flea market and sell it off to those who still need it but do not have the money to acquire new things."

"And what is the deal with Erwan and the Americans?"

Padraig shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing spectacular in fact. Couple of nice jobs for some protégées of O'Flaherty's at the European Commission, Erwan will see to it that Declan McFly finally gets out of prison and perhaps….if everything turns out right, the Americans will take the PIRA off the U.S. State Department's official list of terrorist organizations in 2010, which will allow a certain amount of loyal Irishmen to pay once again visits to family over in the States!"

"Beyond them, I pressume, a certain Dr. Padraig O'Briain, who would very much enjoy to occasionally bother his poor son in Miami instead of giving the kid some breathing space ….and who wants to show off at some Celtologist conferences at US Universities!"

Paddy chuckled evily. The French bonhomie to forget about his rather infamous past had never ever influenced the US State Department, who cold-heartedly refused visas to each and every known member –active or reformed- of the organisations on the official terrorists' list.

His heading the 'no entry to the US' list for the PIRA since the day he'd come clear with the French and publicly outing himself as the offical Number 3 of the organisation had been the key reason for re-arranging Ryan's birth certificate, making him US citizen and hiding the Irish passport. With Padraig as his father, he would not have received a student's visa for Boston College and never ever even a snippet of a US Green Card.

It had helped, that Granny Clemence's youngest brother, Ryan's grand uncle Ronald W. Guggenheim still hat some buddies from his adventurous World War II days in the OSS, who had enough influence to obscure the remaining incoherences in his son's past and when the younger O'Briain had started at Boston College, only an in-depth enquire at either the FBI or the CIA level would probably have turned out his father's identity and past. Anyhow, the fact that both Mary and Clemence had held double citizenships made Ryan's US passport and ID not even a fake…..just a rather belated admission of origins.

Claire fetched a bottle of ice-cold cidre and some snacks from the kitchen. She had grown used to Paddy's nonchalant treatment of things legal and proper and for once she could not even rebuke her man in order to bring him back from some devious path.

" So nobody will have to sneak around and try to find out, where that Rossinski man will ship his ground to air missiles to, if I understand you right, Dear!" She served the two of them a drink and settled down comfortably on her favourite garden chair.

"Nope!" Padraig was very satisfied with himself. This was an excellent trick to pull on the Ismaiylovskaya and other helping Ryan, it brought also the deep satisfaction to slap Oleg Ivanov over the face unpunished. It was mean and petty, but it was good and he loved the whole setup." We are just going to hand over all the details and that Lieutenant Caine or the US Customs or the US Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives have only to welcome the rascals at the right place and at the right time upon their shores. Couldn't be easier!"

Claire also chuckled. She felt relieved, that her man had chosen to employ his brains and not his guts and considerable potential of violence in order to help Ryan out of his difficulties with Sarnoff. When they had spoken on the phone yesterday evening, the younger O'Briain had also told her, that he felt much more at ease with his father docile and staying put.

**

Calleigh felt completely disheartened. When they had called Tripp's number, another homicide detective had replied and told them that Frank was on detatchment for a couple of days and he replaced him with the day shift. Horatio's cell was on the answering machine. BoaVista had told Eric that he'd been in, sat for a long time with the Chief and then even longer with Rick Stetler and then had disappeared without leaving a word or instructions. Stetler had been tight lipped and rather unpleasant, telling her that she'd be in charge of the day shift until Horatio would return. When it had become unavoidable to play an open hand with the IAB sergeant, he'd immediately ordered her off the case and alled in CSI Night Shift and a homicide detective, she might have seen once or twice, but could not even put a name on.

Now her father had spend half a day and a night at the MDPD, first going through some thorough questioning and then going into a holding cell, after one of the Night Shift lab rats had handed some analysis results over to the anonymous homicide detective and Victoria Anderson, the second Lieutenant of the Crime Lab. Calleigh had never ever had the slightest sympathy for Anderson, a tough, black woman with short cut hair and rather masculine features and who was the antipode of Horatio; a dour, humourless scientist, who hardly ever went out into the field with her team and spend most of her time over various evidence in the different lab units. Anderson held a PhD in biochemistry, a masters degree in applied physics and another in genetics.

She reminded Calleigh a little bit of the former Las Vegas Crime Lab boss Gilbert Grissom minus the man's rather lovable eccentricities. And Anderson kept her mouth shut. Even Eric, whom Stetler had not literally send off on a forced administrative holiday because of conflict of interest in an ongoing case had not been able to worm out whatsoever from their Night Shift colleagues and Calleigh did not dare to ask Nathalia BoaVista.

The distrust from Nathalia's days as an FBI mole in their unit –while superficially painted over and agreemented with civilised interaction –still sat too deep. She threw a small glance through the window of one of the interrogation rooms, where her father faced Anderson and her second in command Corbett together with his friend attorney Parker Yates upon whom he'd called as his legal counsellor.

Eric Delko settled down by her side, handing her a cup of coffee. She gave him a hopeful look, but he only shook his head. While nobody in the lab was aware of their relationship, the entire Night Shift bunch kept their mouths shut and BoaVista, Valera , Travers and their other lab technicians seemed strangely distant. "You can still call your father's lawyer as soon as he leaves our premises. I suppose he knows that you are Duke's daughter."

Calleigh nodded. She'd known Parker Yates for years. He was probably their best chance to get some first hand intelligence.

Eric lowered his head and his voice. While they seemed so perfectly excluded from the whole case with neither Horatio to arrange things nor Tripp to handle the issue in a soft and understanding manner, he'd done some discreet investigation work on his own. Before the whole brunt of calling in strangers and leaving Duke to people who neither knew him nor showed any complacency had come over them, he'd quickly taken a couple of blood samples from the Range Rover and the clothes of Calleigh's father.

"I have run my samples, Cal!" He told her softly. "Blood is definitively human and I can put a name on it. The person to whom it belongs is in the CODIS database….."

Calleigh lifted her head, locking her green eyes with Eric's soft brown eyes. "Tell me!"

"I am not sure that you want to hear it, Cal!" He whispered.

But his lover insisted and so he ended up telling her, that the blood belonged to a hooker, who'd also done some time for drugs. He also told Calleigh that there had been sperm on Duke's trousers. It did not belong to Dusquene and nothing had popped up in the database, so he could not tell her, what this all was about, but he'd tried to make discreet enquiries concerning the prostitute. At this moment, unfortunately, he was unsuccessful. Delko had never walked patrol and had no close and trustworthy acquaintances within the classic MDPD units like Horatio, Tripp or Wolfe and he had no relationship with the Feds like BoaVista.

"Are you still on speaking terms with Jake Berkley?" He asked Calleigh. Berkley was back with the MDPD. He did not work Narcotics and Firearms, because they had blown his cover accidentally a year ago during a homicide investigation, but he was with Organised Crime and nobody would be surprised if he'd check on a hooker.

Calleigh shook her head. She and Jake had not exchanged a single word during the last 12 months. For whatsoever reason he seemed to hold her liable for his blown cover. "Better to keep him out of this, Eric. I am not sure that he is still trustworthy, when it comes to us. He is rather stubborn and unforgiving and he still strongly resents his transfer back into the MDPD."

"I may have an idea, Calleigh!" Delko mused.

While it was still strange to think of Alexandr Sherova as his father, Eric's relationship with the ex-CIA operative turned mobster with the American ex-Cia turned Russian mobster had very much improved, since Sherova had taken the risk to come clean with the US authorities concerning his true nationality and therefore the truthfulness of Eric's US citizenship. And while they did not go out every evening the week for a cosy beer and father-son bonding, they saw each other occasionally and something like mutual trust had been developing between the two men.

Delko gave his watch a casual glance. It was about lunchtime. It would be perfectly normal to leave the MDPD premises for a bite. He could not afford to contact Sherova via his mobile and inside this building with too many prying eyes and ears. He needed to go to a public phone and arrange for a discreet meeting with his biological father.

Calleigh gave him a curious look. "What's up, Eric?"

"Nothing! Just keep your calm, relax and let me handle this."

***

Ramona Sanchez stared at the photo she had taken with her brand new high tech mobile, courtesy . The face of the woman was familiar, but she did not remember where she had seen her before. It had been sheer hazard that she'd taken the snapshot. She had been on her way back from the new school Pedro and Rodrigo would attend starting next Monday. It was abeautiful school with beautiful class rooms, a nice playground and dedicated teachers. She had spoken to the director, handed him the boys school files from their old school, signed the documents and paid their school fees for the upcoming year. When she had given the director the check, her heart had stopped for an instant: 5000 US for two boys during one year. This was an enormous amount of money!

She had spoken on her new telephone with the night before. had told her that she could call him after 22 h, when lights went out in Bunker Hill and he was alone in his cell. He had simply brushed off her preoccupation with the school fees, telling her that a good education had no price and that 5000 US for a school year where hardly what he paid Piotr –now Ramona's body guard – for his services every months. Then he'd asked her, if she'd come on Saturday and they had chatted happily for a while. She telling him about the new house, the beautiful environment and all the things they had done with the boys and Baba and he telling her, how much he yearned to see her, hold her in his arms and softly promising her, what could happen between them as soon as he was out of his rat hole and if she wished these things to happen.

Ramona still blushed when she remembered his words, spoken in that soft, slightly throaty and slightly accented voice that made her hairs stand up in her neck and send flutters into her stomach. No man had ever spoken like that to her. There had not been many in her life. She had been much too preoccupied with earning a living for her two younger brothers, but the few she had met had been an absolute downturn and she had habitually fled, as soon as they'd asked more of her then good company. Ramona had never ever told anybody….but at age 25, she was still a virgin…and she had been in love with Ivan Sarnoff ever since she had first met him. But she had always believed that fascinating and sombre man in his mid-forties far beyond her social status and educational level….until he had made the first step.

She swallowed hard and tried to remember. When she had seen that Lieutenant Caine entering the small Italian Restaurant with the opera name 'La Traviata' together with a woman on her way back home from school, she had felt that there was something important going on, something her people needed to know. She had bought herself a magazine and a lunch bag and taken up position in the park in front of 'La Traviata' and when Caine and the woman had left almost three hours later, she had taken the photographs.

Suddenly she remembered. She had seen the slender, graceful blonde on CBS News. She did not remember if it had been the 13 hours or the evening news journal, but the lady was one of the TV 4 anchors….Rita….Erica…..yes….it was Erica Sykes the anchor of the lunchtime news. Horatio Caine meeting a CBS anchor in a restaurant that closed down during rush hour just to provide them with wine and dine? She was perhaps not university educated, but Ramona was not a stupid woman at all…Either Caine and that Sykes woman had an affair or they had been doing mischief….either would be highly interesting for her own people.

She typed in a texto, attached the photo and send it off to Babushka Marja's grandson. He'd know what to do with it. And she would continue to keep her eyes wide open. Whatever could help Ivan, was good with Ramona. She wanted him out of Bunker Hill!

****

He had ascertained beyond a doubt that their newly found French friends were not only very good with IT-related issues, but also possessed of a sense for drama!

Horatio had been picked up by a discreet white sedan on Flatler, then they had proceeded towards some private underground parking, where he had been asked to change into one of three white vans. They had departed together but taken different directions at the exit of the parking, which made it literally impossible to follow or else the Russians where out there with at least three distinctive surveillance teams per CSI, which might be even beyond Ivan Sarnoff's pay grade and available personnel.

After a 45 minutes drive he had found himself in the lavish restaurant of Miami's oldest country club on 2601 NW 119th Street, the Westview, dating back to 1924.

It was even rumoured that during the Great Depression of 1929, Al Capone had used the beautiful grand Clubhouse as a gambling casino and night club. Today the Westview was first and foremost an 18-holes golf course and the finest dining and party room in town.

When he had arrived, Commander Regine Marais, Sergeant Frank Tripp and the host of the evening prefect Erwan de Kersausson were already taking their drinks at the Bar, preserved in its original style of the early 20ies.

Frank seemed to get along fine, not only with Commander Marais, but also with the high-ranking French police man. Horatio found them laughing and yoking over something, kindling their drinks and looking like age-old buddies. Regine gave him a conspirator's smile and motioned him to come over and join.

He had expected something formal, close to his first encounter with the Republic and Commander Marais, but he was completely disappointed, when Monsieur le Préfet simply held out his hand and smiled. The whole event had started similar to his formal lunch with Regine: Drink, small talk and sniffing the other tom-cat's tail.

After a while Horatio had had the strange feeling that Frank and Regine were highly amused spectators, who knew already much more then he did. When de Kersausson finally shepherded his little pack over to the so-called Green Room, a small outdoors space, where the Club's restaurant would serve private lunches on request, Horatio knew that he had been right about Frank and Regine and their knowledge of secrets. He chose a very appetising assorted, grilled sea foods for starters and left the choice of wine diplomatically to the French.

"So we do not need to worry about your military hardware disappearing by misfortune somewhere in Dade County and then raising its ugly head in front of some unsuspecting money transport or something?"

De Kersausson smiled. "Not at all, Lieutenant. And you do not need to worry over the secret desires of your spooks either…we rather intend to get the full dozen back…without any detour via Northrop Grumman or another of your defence corporations. We are French! We like to keep our little secrets."

The prefect had just informed Horatio, that they had arranged with a sufficiently infamous but yet well trusted intermediary to put a tasty offer on the Russian bounty of the Yugoslavian conflict, that had marked the last decade of the XX. century as the first, full-fledged war on European territory since WW II.

Caine found this approach very responsible, even if he could imagine how upset the US intelligence organisations would be, if highly interesting foreign military hardware was simply shipped in and out of their country without having them have a keener look on it. But he could not care less for the tender feelings of the spies. He was a police officers and police officers hated it to have weapons of war on their playground. They had already enough problems with small firearms and the whole assortment of automatic weapons that were circulating with gangs and criminal organisations. He was nonetheless curious.

"Who is the buyer, if I may ask?"

De Kersausson chuckled and threw a glance at Regine. The French legal attaché shrugged her shoulders and made an inviting gesture with her right.

"The buyer is an organisation that may be still listed on the US Department of State terrorism watch, but which has become rather respectable over the last few years. They agreed to do us a favour in exchange for some political support for their political wing at the European Union level. No big deal really. Just a couple of well-paid jobs in Brussels and a presidential grace for a comrade who is at this moment a guest of one of our detention facilities on charges of arms trafficking."

Horatio did not hide his surprise when he learned that Paris was obviously on sufficiently good terms with an emanation of the Irish Republican Army to make them buy weapons they could not keep with their own funds. He said so.

De Kersausson simply explained that he placed his trust in the IRS to return at least this part of the Russian bounty, as soon as they'd be able to blow the company structure set up by Sarnoff in Dade County and Southern Florida. After his lengthy and most formal encounter with his counterpart, the MDPD Chief, the Prefect had paid a quick and impromptu visit to Peter Eliott's bosses in the IRS.

The deal stood, also Horatio had been completely out of the loop. Peter Eliott must have worked quickly and efficiently after he had given him the leather briefcase over some coffee and sandwiches.

Finally the prefect came to the heart of the matter: They had to organise Ryan's internship in the Dade detention facility together with Ivan Sarnoff. It was probably the least moral part of their entire cooperation, but neither of the police officers had a better idea to get the green light of Ryan's head and the Russian hydra in Miami decapitated.

Horatio was surprised by de Kersausson's in-depth knowledge of this crime organisation that had risen from the ashes of the Soviet Union to become within a relatively short time frame waster and much more dangerous then their Italian brethren from Sicily and Naples or the home grown organisations of both countries. This was mostly due to much better organisational structures and a recruitment of the higher ranks from inside the former USSR's intelligence services, armed forces, law enforcement and first and foremost, former Soviet apparatchiki who had all too quickly adapted to the pleasures and perspectives of capitalism.

Horatio had not been aware of Ivan Sarnoff's background as a former Lieutenant-Colonel of the KGB, specialised in the Anglo-Saxon World, especially the US.

This explained to a large extend, how easily the man had managed to implement the full range of his criminal schemes under a veil of respectability in Southern Florida. In addition, he had had considerable financial means courtesy the 'vozhd' Oleg Ivanov and an almost inexhaustible reserve of henchmen that could be imported temporarily or permanently from Russia into the US.

After the extensive and highly informative lunch – Horatio had the feeling that the French could not do any business without opulently feasting on delicacies and quantities of wine that would give Rick Stetler an instant heart attack - de Kersausson suggested that they'd continue in the premises of the French Consulate on Brickell Avenue, close to Simpson Park.

The prefect had brought another grab bag full of goodies on the Miami branch of the Ismaiylovskaya from the Cyber Crime Unit of the DGRI and Commander Regine Marais had send out her footboys based upon intelligence received from Ryan Wolfe. They were now much wiser concerning Cameron West and other people on the mob's payroll who spend their time, following the CSIs discreetly and gathering information. Other West, who was known to Horatio, the French – whom the Miami mob did not expect on their heels – had identified three more observers.

Unfortunately one of them was not only on Sarnoff's payroll but also on the payroll of the MDPD.

****

After her unexpected and highly disconcerting meeting with Lieutenant Caine. Erica Sykes had immediately gone back to her office. At CBS she disposed of a variety of means and tools to discreetly check out what the Crime Lab boss had told her.

She did not doubt the veracity of his words, but she was convinced that he had given her a police man's view….something she liked to call 'tunnel vision'.

In order to help Ryan, Caine's tunnel vision was most certainly not enough. It was hardly sufficient to start a credible mud throwing show! Such an enterprise, like all good things in life required thorough and highly professional preparatory work and a fair amount of fool-proof dope right in the middle between truth and fantasy. It came close to producing a novel in the style of Tom Clancy….could be, but was not!

The MDPD had their sneaks, leaks and informers all over Miami and in so various environments as the drug scene, the prostitution scene, the gambling scene or criminals in general and so had Erica and her peers…..only; the sneaks, leaks and informers who provided to the press where not the same boys and girls who'd give things away to the news media.

And the sources they had within law enforcement and the prisons where mostly not those, the higher ranks of the administrations suspected of dallying with the media!

She was determined to do it right! And doing it right did not mean only to cooperate with Caine, jump in front of a camera, when he gave her the go and tell horrible things to the public about a very bad cop who'd been caught murdering another bad guy over some gambling or horse race fixing. That made excellent prime time for a couple of days, but it did not help Ryan…it only made him halfway credible to some of the inmates of the Dade detention facility of Bunker Hill.

She took a minuscule 20 GB USB key from a solid chain that hung well hidden under her clothes around her neck. No better place to hide ones best sources then right on the body. Whoever wanted to fetch the bounty had first to get pretty close to Mrs. Erica Sykes! Her private laptop, another tiny little thing that could be easily slipped into a lady's handbag. She would not risk her most precious on a PC that was linked into a waste company network where every Tom, Dick and Harry with a CBS contract could snoop around.

Erica knew exactly what Ryan would need: Information on mobster Ivan Sarnoff that went beyond his MDPD booking record, preferably stuff concerning that man's private life…something that could be used to blackmail Ivan, should need arise, something that would hurt even a hardened criminal. Everybody had his weak spots. Sarnoff would make no exception! He was the most difficult task on her list. She'd start immediately with snooping and mobilising her most trustworthy sources in Miami's underworld and inside the prison. Erica inserted a G3 key into another USB slot of the laptop and logged herself in.

It took her hardly ten minutes to contact several good sources and agree to meet face to face with each of them. Then she made a phone call to the editor in chief for the CBS Southern Florida news. As anchor of one of the three important daily news journals, she had quite some liberty in choosing the subjects to agreement the time around the various news flashes.

It was even expected of her to provide own investigation work and reportages. Habitually – in the CBS environment – morning and lunch time anchors who did well on reportages and who had some foreign language skills could expect to go on either into headquarters as foreign correspondents or into the CBS offices abroad.

Erica was not so much inclined to get herself into the nest of serpents that was the CBS headquarters in New York City, but she could imagine a couple of years overseas. Both her French and Spanish were excellent and she spoke very decent German!

She gave the editor in chief a minimalist outline for a subject that was sufficiently interesting to hook him and sufficiently related to her snooping after Ivan Sarnoff to make the man happy and cooperative. It was still time enough for the brutal truth, when she got the green light from Lieutenant Caine.

Her boss would not be opposed helping law enforcement. While they were on occasions ruthless and quite often a nuisance to the police forces or government agencies, they were also a most honourable television chain with a strict code of conduct. CBS had hardly ever refused cooperation, when government entities had been able to demonstrate clearly to them that the airing of disinformation was for the overall good.

The next point on Erica's agenda was a little bit more obscure and most certainly not in line with Lieutenant Horatio Caine's intents: He had not told her Ryan's whereabouts. All she knew, was that her man was 'out of the country' and under cover. This statement did not fit entirely with the rest of the information she had received from the Crime Lab boss. There was a bit more to the whole issue. It was just a gut feeling, but she needed to check this out.

The easiest and most discreet way was to simply go and find Ryan's grand uncle, Ronald Wellesley Guggenheim. Perhaps the old gentleman knew something. He and Ryan were very close. She gave the clock on her office wall a glance. It was half past four! Uncle Ron would be already off his daily golf course and in the lounge or bar of the Miami Shores Country Club, if he had not changed his habits over the last two years.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note:** _Sorry for the delay with the update, but real life is in early summer quite demanding for me and the hay making, our beasts and our plants require quite a lot of attention. I may be a bit more free and easy after 5__th__ July, when the hay is in!_

Chapter 30 Raging Wolfe

*

Timofeij Belkin accepted his fate!

Somehow, over the last few days, the idea of a new identity and a new life away from the Bratstvo, its brutal discipline and its even more brutal punishments for failure or betrayal had become very much attractive. He had nothing left in Miami; Dima was dead and he had gotten himself caught the moment he'd set foot on the soil of France. None of his superiors over in the US would be too happy or too forgiving with him and even if his failure would not be punished with a death sentence, his possibilities to ever raise beyond the rank of foot soldier were extremely slim to the point of non existing!

Tim took another sip of coffee on the terrace of the safe house of the Paris Police at Fontainebleau and replied in a docile and polite manner to the two police officers who had been quintessential in his capture at the airport.

It was much easier to talk with Commanders Delveaux and Moulin then with his habitual interrogators. The two men showed honest and straight forward emotions; they smiled, they growled, they even became angry on occasion. He'd spend a bit of time explaining to them the command structure over in Miami and what detailed return of information Sarnoff's Number 2 Vladimir Nevzorov would expect of him, if he'd be on Montmartre instead of the undercover agent.

"Isn't there anything you could tell us about the mastermind behind the whole set up of Lieutenant Caine's CSI team?" Commander Moulin insisted for at least the tenth time that morning, "….just a hint, a memory, whatsoever?"

Belkin was thinking very hard. He tried to remember, tried to visualise things. He wanted to be cooperative!

The French had promised him that he'd spend about 12 months after his fake death under their surveillance. He could opt for a make over and aesthetic surgery if he wanted. They were willing to give him a new face together with his new identity.

At the end of that year, he could basically go wherever he wanted in France. They'd give him necessary documentary support for a past and help him establish himself, including finding an adequate job. All that was expected of him in exchange, beyond the information on the Ismaiylovskaya he could provide now, was to appear as a witness against Rossinski, should need arise. The French offer was honest!

"I do not know!" Belkin smiled sheepishly. "This could be Ivan Sarnoff's own project. He's quite a twisted sense of humour. All I can tell you….the night, when your CSI friend had his little "discussion" with my brother, other Vladimir Nevzorov, Sarnoff's second in command, another high rank of the Bratstvo was present. His name's Alexeij Danilenko. Habitually he's not involved in whatsoever dirty business and he was….well…very much disturbed by what he'd seen…."

Moulin gave a tiny, little sigh. Ryan's little "discussion". It would not have been for the intelligence they were gathering right now, he'd rather strangled that Belkin man. But this was unprofessional behaviour!

"What is this Danilenko habitually doing?" Delveaux took over quickly. He felt, that they were onto something. Belkin had not mentioned this name before.

Tim shrugged his shoulders. " As far as I know, he is in charge of one of the legal businesses of the organisation. He is a developer of software for the entertainment industry. I believe, Sarnoff gave him a financial legs up, when he came over from Russia and in exchange he is doing computer stuff for Ivan."

Moulin nodded moodily, Delveaux smiled. 'Gotcha!' He thought. Now we have maybe found the man behind the Bratstvo's IT system. He stood up from his chair. This was news that had to go over to the boss immediately. "The toilettes are right inside to the left?" He drowned the fish of his impromptu departure. JP seemed to understand and continued the discussion with the mobster.

**

Jacob Jarovsky was rather satisfied with the reactions to his little mailing. He had three firm offers. One from the Columbians, as expected, another from a group of American "patriots" who had rather specific ideas concerning their superiority and something of a rigid attitude concerning the perpetrators of 9/11. Jacob had no clue what they wanted with ground-to-air missiles, but the offered sum was interesting and he knew, the guys could pay. He'd been delivering AK-47 assault rifles and loads of ammunition to that group ever since 2004. They were –so to say- good clients.

The third offer was the most interesting but also the most intriguing: It came from a pretty notorious splinter group of the Irish Republican Army. During the days of the Soviet Union, they had had –at KGB level- quite some dealings with the Irish and even trained them in camps in North Africa. But since the peace process had taken cruising speed in Ireland, IRA emanations were rather sellers then buyers of hardware.

Jarovsky mulled it over for an instant: The Columbians were trouble making brutes. They had their problems with these organisations and the gangs of Miami. They stepped regularly on the toes of the Bratstvo. As to the American patriots; well! They had their brains full of shit and it could not be excluded that they'd use the missiles on the American soil. If ever the US Services would trace the stuff back to them……nothing but trouble. He opened his cell and called Nevzorov.

"I am seeling the Mistrals to the Irish, Valodija! They have offered an excellent price and the hardware will most probably disappear from our line of sight as soon as we deliver it to the PIRA."

Nevtzorov was a bit surprised that Jacob was selling of their missiles so quickly and so easily, but he was not opposed to the potential buyer. The IRA had proven itself in the past a very professional and reliable client who did not mess around or create any trouble and he –for once-preferred to deal with true professionals and not the habitual amateurs or ravaging mad gangs and drug cartels.

"Go, Jacob! I will inform Ivan and make sure that the 'vozhd' in Moscow is updated on your progress. You arrange for everything and talk to Rossinski……and Jacob…do ask how Timofeij's doing with that little rat Wolfe!"

Nevzorov wanted to finally see Danilenko's great game against Lieutenant Caine and his CSIs up and Ivan Sarnoff a bit closer to the exit of Miami Dade Detention Facilities at BunkerHill. Not that he did not enjoy managing the brothers without the boss, but he had a serious business to run and with the upcoming holiday season and tens of thousands of tourists floating into Miami, the "Forge" would require a lot of his time and energy.

***

Ryan Wolfe found his undercover life in Paris notorious 9th arrondissement neither particularly stressful, nor tremendously exciting. Dragging along his two Russian shadows, he went from pub to bookie to gambling arcade to flea ridden hotel. He had to admit that the little "holiday" was agreeing with him. Occasionally he'd even stop and flirt with the hookers, who by now had understood that he was good fun but not a client. They liked him; he was good-looking, polite and respectful. He did not look down on them, like many others would do, when they passed.

Ryan had taken a seat with one of his new "girl friends" on the terrace of a small Algerian restaurant. She was somewhere in her early thirties, but the strong make up, the flaming red, coloured hair and a little bit too much alcohol and too many flight hours made her look ten years older. They were chatting happily, he in front of a coke and a pretty decent Couscous, she with red win, salad and a grilled chicken. Ryan was offering! He'd had a lucky hand the night before at Dante's, his favourite poker table by now.

His two broad shouldered and rather wicked-looking Russian shadows were standing at the street corner, pretending not to be there and smoking cigarette after cigarette. He'd managed to snatch two leftovers from another 'smoking scene' some days ago and they had been discreetly send to the Garches Crime Lab for analysis. Claire had processed the DNA herself. His two shadows now had names and a past, but he still called them cockamamie Dick and Harry in his mind. It was really comforting to know, with whom you were hanging out!

He and Poniatowski had discussed the two guys at length. Serge was doing the same things, Ryan did, only in a much better outfit and in a more sophisticate environment. Under cover of hitman Tim Belkin he haunted Montmartre, dined and wined in the best restaurants around Ile de la Cité, paid visits to the exclusive shops between the Louvre Museum and Rivoli and upgraded his wardrobe with some nice Armani and a bit of Hermes.

While Ryan was supposed to be a cooper on the run who'd soon turn bad, Serge had to keep up the appearances of a Miami Russian mob on an important business trip!

Wolfe chuckled softly. Serge mentioning his Armani upgrades made him smile and the wining and dining at 200 € a lunch made him smile. He washed the last piece of grilled sausage down with the last gulp of Coke. He'd rather have some decent Chateaubriand and a nice glass of Saint Emillion. Why couldn't he play soon-to-be bad cop in the 16th arrondissement? Living at the Ritz, gambling at Longchamps and taking out an escort girl at 2500 € an evening would at least prove that he was a successful rogue! And there were probably no fleas in the hotel beds between Auteuil, Neuilly and Passy!

The hooker - her 'artist's name' was Emmanuelle - finished her lunch and pulled the latest edition of 'Paris Turf' from her pocket, unfolding it on the page with the afternoon gallop races at the Hippodrome. Her long finger, the even longer nail painted in a flashy shade of violet, pointed at some horses' names.

"One of my clients gave me a tip for this afternoon. These three are absolute winners, Joel!" She knew Ryan only by the false name in his fake French passport. " What do you think. Shall we enjoy an afternoon at the Hippodrome and watch some horse racing?"

Emmanuelle was convinced that Ryan was some kind of professional gambler or maybe a man who had a fickly icky problem with the law. During one of their first encounters, when she had tried to hook him up, she had accidentally got the feel of a gun, stuck in his belt. She had been clever and not insisted and just continued to joke and try to attract him.

Ryan had appreciated her discretion and they had soon become something close to friends.

"Don't you have social work to do?" He asked her with a cheeky smile.

"Bah, work! You cannot always work in my profession. Much too exhausting….and unfortunately most of my clients do not have your charming personality and good looks!" She replied with a wink of the eye.

"Sorry for that, gal! " He was not against a trip to Longchamps. It would give his two Russian shadows a bit of leg stretching and he preferred the real thing to the television screens at the bookies

"Had some pretty solid clients yester eve!" Emmanuel replied cheerfully, padding her handbag. She was an independent, specialised as a domina and did not work for a pimp.

Ryan padded the pocket of his jeans. "Had a good hand at the Dante's last night, gal! Come on, let's be foolish and waste our money!"

****

Alijosha Danilenko looked at the photo of Horatio Caine with that Sykes woman. It was a mystery! He had not found any references in any of his notes on the CSIs concerning that news chick. There was probably nothing at all behind this rather discreet encounter. Sykes was an anchor on the 13 hours journal and had a good reputation as a journalist. She was probably preparing one of those subjects with which CBS filled out the time between the flashes. Nonetheless, Ramona had done well. She was a keen observer!

He decided to put the photograph into his folder "Caine" and return to his other pet project of the moment: CSI Calleigh Dusquene!

According to his little mole inside MDPD and the Crime Lab, the recovery of a blood covered and alcohol-smelling Kenwall Dusquene from one of the most remote beaches of Miami at the break of day had given his daughter quite the shock. And since her habitual protector Lieutenant Caine was very much preoccupied with other things –the mole had spoken of lengthy encounters with the Chief and with the IAB agent Stetler- CSI Dusquene had been taken off her father's case by the hierarchy and was apparently deeply depressed, very nervous and very much rattled. Kenwall Dusquene had been taken over by the CSI Night Shift Team which was not really loquacious and the mole had been able to tell Aliosha that Dusquene father had been put into custody, while the Night Shift was looking for the female to which the DNA from the blood found on his car belonged.

He congratulated himself on his splendid idea! Calleigh Dusquene depresses, nervous and rattled would also mean Eric Delko nervous, insecure and very much preoccupied. And Lieutenant Caine was obviously rather more obsessed with finding his stray CSI Wolfe, who'd disappeared from the surface of the planet, then to take care of his two little pets.

Ivan Sarnoff's prediction was starting to come true: They were breaking them!

Now all he needed was a texto from Paris and an attached file with a photograph of the lifeless body of CSI Wolfe!

According to the latest news from the French capital, Wolfe was hiding somewhere in an infamous part of Paris between scum, criminals, junkies and prostitutes. Not a bad move! Nobody would look for a respectable police officer within the abyss of hell! It also seemed that the man was either in desperate need of money or a compulsive gambler. According to Rossinski's shadows, Wolfe spend most of his time around semi-legal poker tables or at bookmakers. Unfortunately, the guy was no loser. Rossinski had told them, that he had been on a winning streak…perhaps an attempt to gather funds and disappear for good.

Wolfe was probably aware of the fact that a hit order from the Russian mob could only be cancelled if the intended victim would managed to eliminate the very man who had pronounced his or her death sentence. Considering the fact that in CSI Wolfe's case the order had come directly from Ivan Sarnoff –something the police officer might have figured out- it was hopeless to try whatsoever: Ivan sat cosily and safely behind the high, electrified fences of the Miami detention facilityBunker Hill….

Danilenko logged into the independent PC upon which Belkin's BlackBerry and tracker were located. He entered his password. It would be perhaps a good idea to attack Wolfe right now, as long as he was hiding out in this disreputable location in Paris. Even if his body would be found, the French police would think nothing of it, as long as Belkin made sure to take Wolfe's ID and whatever he carried with him that might help to identify the man.

He wrote his message to the hit man overseas and pushed the "Send" button.

*****

Erwan de Kersausson was on his way back to France. A car of the French consulate had driven the high-ranking police officer back to MIA hardly an hour ago and Commandant Regine Marais allowed herself the luxury of letting her hair down; both literally and in the figurative sense. She had kicked off her shoes, dug her bare feet into the warm, soft sand at Miami beach and leaned comfortably against Frank Tripp's massive body. They were both kindling Margueritas, while Horatio had opted for a very basic and very cold beer.

"Tonight," He said, taking off his sunglasses, "..I need a straightforward hamburger and chips!"

Frank chuckled. His free, left hand massaged gently Regine's neck. He could not care less that Horatio observed this rather revealing gesture. The MDPD non-Fraternisation Rule applied only to armed police officers working in the same unit!

They had all worked very hard over the last three days: In straightforward French, working very hard meant – beyond other things – three copious lunches and two lavish diners with de Kersausson. The revelation of a mole right inside the Crime Lab had only been the cherry on the cake. They had agreed upon leaving the civilian employee in charge of carrying documents and evidence between the different services alone for the moment. He might even prove an asset if carefully fed with the "right" false information. MDPD would come down on him hard and heavy once the operation against Sarnoff came to an end.

"So, how are things going with your journalist, H.?" Regine asked lazily enjoying Frank's gentle ministrations and her cold drink.

She could get accustomed to spending her free evening hours with Sergeant Tripp. The man was amazing! At the professional level he was hardnosed, intuitive, clever and tough as nails. At the private level he was the most affectionate and gentle male she's met in a very long time –this including her ex-husband, who had been as affectionate as a nail bed once his career had taken the ascending branch. Frank and Regine had lots of interests in common, including such favourite past times as hunting and fishing, and they could talk for hours. And Frank was a skilful and entertaining lover. Life would never be boring with him.

Caine smiled. He had long been hoping that his old friend and partner in crime Frank Tripp would find a new love interest after his scary and tremendously ugly divorce some six years ago. Even if only this and the discovery of a traitor inside his lab would come out of the whole hurly-burly over Ivan Sarnoff and his mob, it would have been worth the while.

"She is making good progress! I guarantee you, Regine, that she will do an excellent job."

Commandant Marais lifted her head and fixed Caine. While she was still not overenthusiastic about the boss of the CSI day shift, she had somehow grown accustomed to his behaviour and mechanics. She could not prevent herself from resenting his cool and detached attitude towards CSI Wolfe whom he would soon send to beard the lion in his den. On the other hand, she was capable to admit that he was a true professional. Regine knew, that she'd never be foolishly in love with H., but she was sure that they'd do an exceptional job together.

"Meaning the little news lady has too much to loose to mess up?" She replied. There was a hint of cynicism in her voice.

"What would you have done in my place?" Horatio had told her, Tripp and de Kersausson the whole sad story. It had been a first and he was not tremendously proud of himself.

Regine was full of mischief. Suddenly memories of Jean Paul Moulin and his rabble-rousing journalist wife Samantha Beaumont were back. Sam had been a pest and a nuisance, but more then once Jean Paul's hip hugging with the media had helped them. Marais still remembered vividly the case of serial killer Jean-Luc Moreau, nicknamed 'Robin redbreast' because he had left all his victims with a dead bird of the same species on their breasts. Sam had not hesitated to put her life on the stake in order to help Jean Paul and his colleagues catch the monster……only to be killed by a drunken driver soon after on the cross-walk in front of her newspaper 'Liberation', leaving a completely destroyed JP and two small daughters behind. Regine had been great friends with Sam!

"I would have shamelessly capitalised on the fact that one of my coppers goes out with a news chick! Handled correctly and occasionally fed with a story or two she would have been willing to do a lot for the pretty eyes of CSI Wolfe. I am sure of it!" Sam had never hesitated to either help or crucify them in her articles. Even JP had not escaped the acid quill of his little sweet heart!

Horatio shrugged his shoulders. "That had been an option! I was seriously thinking of it one moment in time." He had in fact.

He had been thinking of it very seriously, when Erica had helped them with the sono equipment and provided first class recordings and images of a shoot out with the Mala Noche that had almost cost the life of several police officers….literally for Ryan Wolfe's pretty eyes.

It would have been a good deal and perhaps he would have saved himself a good deal of trouble and Wolfe a good deal of pain. But neither Eric nor Calleigh would have accepted this choice placidly and so he had taken the other option –the restraining order: Cruel on Erica and Ryan, but so convenient to calm down the fiery spirits of his two other CSIs.

"So?" Regine did not let go. She wanted to be right in the loop. It was quintessential for their plan to succeed….and there was perhaps the one or the other detail she could pass discreetly to Jean Paul Moulin who would transmit it –most certainly- to CSI Wolfe. Other a faithful, helping hand, the boy needed a break, a big hug and the feeling that there were people out, who stood by him. He'd been through quite a lot recently and he had not yet come to the end of his ordeal. Miami Dade Detention Facility at Bunker Hill and Ivan Sarnoff were still raising their ugly heads in front of him.

"Mrs. Sykes is basically preparing a television subject on the illegal Miami gambling scene and the involvement of the Russian mob, including the fixing of horse races and other spiteful acts. She intends to insinuate that even members of Miami's law enforcement are involved and bring up, that there had already been temporary suspensions and – as a consequence -reopening of cases etc."

Frank Tripp was listening attentively. Erica Sykes was obviously weaving a clever net of truth, half-truth and straight lies. It was a tremendously clever approach….and a very dangerous one for the journalist herself. Erica would make herself some enemies, not only with the Russian mob, but also with other thugs and hoods who worked the gambling scene of Dade County.

But the advantage was that Erica could easily use the old records from when Ryan had been fired after H. had shown a video of Yelina's to Rick Stetler. That would make his cover story even more credible. And with Marc and Billy Gantry out of the reach of Sarnoff's mob, she could shamelessly exploit Ryan's fight with one of Ivan's henchmen in the Gantry's house a couple of months ago and which ended in the bloody suicide of the later. It was a good choice. Regine, too, nodded approvingly.

"What about that Danilenko bloke?" Frank enquired. During last night's diner, de Kersausson had been disturbed by a urgent phone call. The Russian mobster held by the French had given up Ivan Sarnoff's IT wizard and details concerning that man's professional activities. It was assumed, that Danilenko was also the mastermind behind the elaborate intrigue against the CSIs and the client for both, Ryan's service weapon and his cell phone. This also meant, that it was him who had called Horatio.

Regine shook her head. "Leave him to us, H.! My boys will run a discreet enquiry. He may be at the look out for MDPD, but most certainly not for the French."

****

They had spend a highly entertaining afternoon at the Longchamps Hippodrome. Built on the banks of the Seine River, it was used for flat racing and was noted for its variety of interlaced tracks and a famous hill that provides a real challenge to competing thoroughbreds. Longchamps had several racetracks varying from 1,000 to 4,000 meters in length with 46 different starting posts and Emanuelle's client had been as good as gold on the 2150 meters for thoroughbred breeding mares. Both she and Ryan looked contently at a small fortune in their hands.

Emmanuelle took a content sip from a glass of champagne. " That was much better then social work! I think, I will take at least 3 months of vacation on the coast." She had changed, before they had set off to the Hippodrome and looked almost respectable in a nice linen summer dress with a decorated straw hat and pretty designer high heels.

Ryan in his jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket made a strange contrast to the woman. He smiled sheepishly, when she passed him the plate with fresh lobster. This time it was Emanuelle who invited and he felt highly embarrassed . His good manners and education would have forbidden him under normal circumstances to accept such a lavish invitation, even if it came from a chick who had just pocketed 50 grands in cash. He had done well, too, also on a more prudent betting system. JP would be happy to hand over 5000 € of gains to the fund for the widows and the orphans of the Paris Police Forces.

"You should, Emanuelle!" He replied, opening a pincer delicately with a lobster cracker and extracting the meat inside with a long two-pitched fork. His Russian shadows had stayed all the time at their heels, even when they had placed their bets at the state-run PMH, the hippodrome branch of France's betting system PMU. He'd feel better if his 'friend' Emanuelle was as far away from the 9th arrondissement as possible, as long as Rossinski's hitmen were on the run.

Emanuelle lowered her head and nibbled at a slice of fresh, white bread with salted butter. " Would you like to come with me, Joel? I have a cosy little flat in Deauville…right on the beach and with a splendid view over the Atlantic." She found the young, broad shouldered man very seductive. His five o'clock shadows and the slightly rusticate outfit were hardly capable of hiding a well-mannered, kindly male and his soft hazel eyes betrayed not only a good, honest heart but also a specific disguise that had been taken for a specific purpose. A good hooker was also a good psychologist and capable of reading the depths of the human soul and Emanuelle was one of the best of her profession. Joel was perhaps on the run, but he was no rogue….

Ryan looked up from his seafood delicacies and gave her a open and straightforward smile. "Thanks, gal! That's very generous of you and under other circumstances I would have accepted your offer…..but I cannot. But you should go, Dear. When we are through with diner, I take you to your place, you pick up your stuff and I see you to the Saint Lazare Rail station. Last train for the Norman coast's at 23h10, so you'll catch it."

Emanuelle cleaned her fingers on a tissue imbibed with water and lemon juice. Then she placed her long fingers gently under Ryan's stubbly chin. "You, " She said and her eyes had suddenly turned very serious, "…are many things, but your are not what you pretend to be!" She bend over the table and kissed him gently on the front. "You are a copper, aren't you? Be very careful! The two hulks, who have been trailing us all afternoon look very dangerous and up to great mischief."

Ryan understood immediately that it was no good to try and pretend. The woman in front of him was an experienced prostitute in a very dangerous line of business. The fact that at 35, perhaps 40 years of age she was still in the business and apparently relatively well off, without a pimp and unscathed proved, that she was an excellent judge of character. It was ridiculous to try and pretend. He allowed himself the little comfort to lean into her caress.

"You're right!" He replied very softly, " And this is the very reason, why you will ask the waiter to all you a taxi. They are after me. There is no need for you to run a risk. You just go, get your stuff together and take the very next train." He discreetly pulled a small piece of paper with Jean Paul Moulin's service cell from his jacket and slipped it into your hand. " As soon as you are at your flat in Deauville, you call this number. Tell them, you're my friend. They will see to your safety until my business is over."

Emmanuelle was a clever woman. She pocketed the phone number, finished her diner and motioned to the waiter.

The Russian mobsters sat a couple of tables away. Dick and Harry did not move, when Emmanuelle kissed Ryan good bye and left. He gave a deep breath of relief and braced himself for what was to come.

His hooker friend had been right. While, until now Rossinski's hit men had just looked interested, their appearances had turned from curious observers to dangerous hunters. It was possible that the low-flying thugs had become rather more enthusiastic, when they had seen him pocket 5 grands at the bookies'. The green light on his head together with the money in his pocket were rather powerful stimulants for some daredevil adventure. And maybe the guys were even aware of the lavish 2 million dollars Ivan Sarnoff promised for his hide!

Ryan ordered some Earl Grey tea with brown sugar and a slice of lemon and studied his possibilities. Serge Poniatowski was of the opinion to send a straightforward and muscled message to Alexandr Rossinski should an opportunity open to Wolfe. Considering the fact, that Ryan was to "brutally kill" as soon as the Mistral shipment was on its way to the US, some mobster bashing beforehand could only "improve" his reputation, once inside Bunker Hill.

The other possibility was to chose Emmanuelle's elegant way out and have the waiter call a taxi!

Ryan was habitually not very much incline to participate in brawls and other crude scrimmage, but he was also a well-trained police officer, who'd stand his man should need arise.

He emptied his cup and called the waiter.

"Would you be good enough and get me a taxi?" He enquired politely. They were two, the Bois de Boulogne was rather empty at this time of day and his broken ribs had just started to mend and give him some peace. It was more sensible to avoid a confrontation for as long as possible.

Instead of bothering the taxi driver to get him to his flea-ridden hotel, Ryan asked the man to drop him at Chatelet-les-Halles. From there he walked to O'Connely's at the corner between the pedestrian area Place Joachim de Bellay and Rue Reaumur.

He'd finished his evening with a small beer, listening to some rather good music. At a quarter to twelve, he decided to call it a day, leaving his cosy corner at the Irish pup to confront the manifold household pests at the 'Hotel de l'Etoile' valiantly. The air was warm and the street still full of people. Curious and slightly foolhardy tourists were slowly adding to the habitués on rue Saint Denis.

Ryan did not rush.. Thumbs hooked leisurly into the belt of his jeans, he strolled on the sidewalk, throwing an eye into the shop window of a second hand records shop. While he had not seen the two Russians Dick and Harry, after he had left the restaurant on the Longchamps Hippodrome, he was still on his guards. It was not impossible that they'd perhaps send out another team. Nobody could do 24/24-7/7 and even mobsters needed to sleep.

It happened after Ryan had left the zone were rue Saint Denis crossed Boulevard de la Bonne Nouvelle and Rue Turbigo: Imposing and colourful hookers straight out of Africa monopolised this part of the red light district and gave it a feline aspect.

He greeted some of them who were friends with Emmanuelle. The girls wolf-whistled him cheerfully, told him, that he had a nice 'derrière' and insinuated rather loudly that he was missing out on good fun if he continued on his way instead of staying with them.

"Not tonight!" He grinned like a Chesire cat,"…I'll be in trouble with my Mommie, if I come back home late and with a funny smell of perfume on my clothes!"

When he turned into the small, dark side street that was a shortcut to his grubby hotel, Dick of Dick's and Harry's, whom he had believed to be on leave for at least a couple of hours suddenly stood in front of him. He was huge, he was broad shouldered, he was mean and he had a rather menacing timber to his accented voice.

"Shit!" Ryan was pretty much aware of the fact that Dick was about one head higher and twice as broad as he himself. The guy rather resembled a premium Norman bull at a show then a Russian mobster. And he brandished something that looked like a butterfly knife in his hand.

He decided to play it cool. Officially, Ryan was not aware of the fact that he was followed by the Russian mob in Paris. He lifted his hands and smiled. "Take it easy, man! I am no trouble. Just on the way back home." He doubted that this idiotic statement would suffice to get Dick out of the way, but it would buy time….and he was not supposed to know that the Russian was trailing him. Ryan was not tremendously keen to draw the Glock and put a hole between the mobster's eyes. First, it was a rather noisy enterprise and second he had a certain amount of reservations against killing a man.

The Russian was not really impressed with Ryan. He came closer, the butterfly knife gleaming in the streetlights of close-by rue Saint Denis.

Ryan lowered his hands and took a step backwards, hoping to make the man desist. If Dick would just come one inch closer into what he considered his personal space on this sidewalk, he could not guarantee that the man would leave the battle ground unscathed.

But Dick would not listen to reason!

Ryan Wolfe was still in rather bad physical shape and slightly battle worn, but he was also looking back on 25 years of classic fencing, 20 years of Kendo and 24 months of police academy training in hand-to-hand combat and if he knew one thing, it was how to get rid an adversary of cold steel.

Dick did not even realise what happened to him, before his "easy prey" knelt over him and pressed the sharp blade of the butterfly knife to his throat.

Only the group of noisy African hookers who had come running over from their habitual working place to the dark street saved the Russian mobsters life. Three of the girls were hitting Dick with their handbags over his head, while the fourth and strongest forced Ryan from the man's chest.

"You calm down, baby!" She murmured soothingly. "Everything will be all right! Emmanuelle told us to look after you, before she left on holidays. You relax. You take that knife off that bugger's throat…."

Ryan was breathing heavily. The effort had taken its tool and his broken ribs hurt. He gave a deep sigh, took the knife from the Russian's throat and abandoned him to three ravaging prostitutes with handbags. He allowed the fourth woman to drag him to his feet.

"You are right!" He replied softly, " That bastard's not worth it. Two of the Chinese restaurant owners from rue Saint Denis had joined the girls over the turmoil, one of them armed with a baseball bat. The Russian mobster whimpered with fear.

It took a couple of seconds before Wolfe recovered his breath and his composure. He motioned to the Chinese with the bat who had not hesitated to add a good hit to the hookers' handbags. "Let it be. Let him go. I am ok. Thank you!"

Immediately the two Chinese men disappeared back to their businesses. The prostitutes gave up on their bleeding victim on the ground and Number 4, who had pulled Ryan off the man placed her hand over his shoulders. He decided to follow the girls quietly. If ever a message had to be passed to the Paris branch of the Russian mob, it was passed: he was not an easy prey and he'd fight back.

Before Ryan had come entirely back to his senses, he found himself in a small flat that had been decorated with bloodcurdling taste. Three of his four saviouresses were keeping him company on a aubergine leather couch with bright orange cushions. Number 4 was brewing tea.

It could have been worse. He accepted a cup of strong mint tea gracefully and thanked the ladies from the bottom of his heart. If ever he had killed Dick in a fit of rage, this made have put at risk their entire operation. It was simply impossible to leave a blood-soaked body on a Paris sidewalk just like that…….


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 31 Conspiracy Club

*

Calleigh looked like a walking shadow, also her father had been released from custody some days ago. She was pale and the shadows under her green eyes spoke of bad nights and not enough sleep.

The conclusions of the CSI Night Shift concerning Duke Dusquene's potential accident were not yet public and she knew the details only from Parker Yates, his lawyer.

While Parker Yates had managed to plead "No body, no crime!", Duke had not escaped a withdrawal of his driver's licence and an encounter with the judge for a repeat performance of "Driving under Alcohol". Since this was neither the first that Duke had found himself cornered with enough Whisky in the blood to make a small distillery run, the judge had condemned him to a steep fine.

It had been extremely humiliating for Calleigh to listen to the sentence. Judge Myers had underlined that he was bored with seeing Duke every second months or so in his court room. A legal practioneer himself, should be aware of Florida's legislation with respect to DWI. And since classic fines had not yet convinced him to quit the bottle, Judge Myers declared that he would go for something slightly more extravagant this time: Instead of a prison sentence for a repeat offender, he would impose a detoxifying treatment together with a permanent withdrawal of 's driver's licence, the seizure of his vehicle and a fine of 15.000 US.

Calleigh had driven her father straight from the tribunal to a clinic in Biscayne and not spoken a word with him ever since. She was completely disappointed with the man! And she was angry…..so angry!

When she had returned to the Crime Lab next morning, she had found herself face to face with Rick Stetler. He had asked her into his office and given her a lengthy speech concerning her father's drinking habit and the bad light this was throwing on the MDPD in general and the Crime Lab in particular. He was perfectly aware, that Duke's problem was not a first, also Horatio had put a lot of energy into hiding his first serious misstep, five years ago.

Stetler had sworn, that while "No body, no crime!" may have worked for Kenwall Dusquene, it did not work for him. He had been outright nasty!

Lieutenant Anderson and the Night Shift would be tasked by the MDPD Chief himself, the enquiry would continue, they would find out what had really happened on the beach and Calleigh better beware not to try and interfere with whatsoever or else she'd bear the consequences and loose her job.

She had been so angry when leaving the IAB sergeant's office…..angry with Stetler, angry with Duke and angry with Horatio, who was nowhere around to downplay the whole incident with the authorities and help her figure out the truth. She was also angry with herself, because she had taken Stetler's jibe without a fight.

But after the emotional roller coaster with her father and the humiliating court session she had been simply to fagged to resist.

The only good thing had been the fact, that the IAB sergeant had not kept his tongue in check and betrayed to Calleigh that something was very suspicious with both the blood and the semen found on Kenwall Dusquene's clothes and on the car.

Only a few hours later, Eric had confirmed Stetler's statement. Calleigh knew that he'd run some private enquiry concerning the hooker, whose blood he had identified on the car and on Duke. He was absolutely formal that the girl was neither dead nor bodily hurt. It appeared that she had left for Seattle the very day the incident with Duke had happened. Unfortunately Eric could not reveal his source, which meant that neither could give this information to Anderson of the Night Shift, the homicide detective who worked with her or even Stetler.

But at least she knew, that her father was not guilty of manslaughter!

Calleigh was drudging through her chores without enthusiasm.

Eric and BoaVista had gone to a crime scene together with Tripp's replacement Walter Rogers, a rather decent fellow, who had shown her a lot of sympathy in her trial. Maxine Valera had brought up some evidence from one of Nathalia's cold case, a gory triple homicide in a homestead on the outskirts of the Everglades. She was processing the evidence, comparing one by one the 1999 casings with her database. Her eyes slipped mechanically over the casings and the comparative photos.

Calleigh did not want to process this old stuff of BoaVista's. She did not really care about a 10 years old murder. She wanted to talk to H., tell him her misery and ask his advise, but Horatio had been out of the lab for most of the week and when he dropped in, he seemed distant and completely absorbed by other things. From time to time he even forgot to greet her. There was not even a hint of a rumour in the lab on what her boss was working!

After some 45 minutes of comparing she finally found a match. She quickly screened BoaVista's files and realised that her discovery would bring a conclusion to this ten years old enquiry, even if the culprit was no longer alive. The weapon that had shot the fatal bullet belonged to a man who had been executed two years earlier for triple homicide. It had only been found during his arrest in 2005

Calleigh signed her statement, pocketed the casing in an evidence bag, put everything into BoaVista's evidence box and decided to take the box down to DNA herself. Anyhow, she had nothing else to do.

**

In 2002 Alexandr Rossinski had acquired a stock of fivethousand AK-47s from Yougoslavian army stocks and moved them successfully from Serbia to Liberia under the guise of a legal transaction with Nigeria. One of his planes in this shipment had come from Ukraine and made a refuelling stop in Lybia while en route. The other had set of from Belarus with a refuelling stop in Algeria.

Small arms trafficking in the 21st century was a global operation worth about one billion US per year and Alexandr Rossinski had a very fair share in this lavish sum.

His highly innovative network, like many others in this domain, had evolved in the shadows of globalization and was quick to exploit legitimate international channels, systems, and infrastructures where they already exist – and equally quick to create new ones where they did not.

The shadow networks of the Russian Mafia in the world of arms trafficking were deeply integrated not only with one another, but with the entire global economy.

Arms trafficking networks were relying on many different actors in many different countries. Rossinski had pilots flying planes originating in Belgium, Ukraine, or South Africa trafficked weapons originating in Eastern Europe and delivering them to clients from Africa to Afghanistan for the Ismayilovskaya Bratstvo.

Mostly Russian, Greek or Maltese captains on freight ships owned by shadowy off-shore companies in Aruba, the Cap Verdian Isles or the Domenican Republic, serviced by sailors from China, Vietnam or the Philippines and carrying the colours of Panama, Liberia or Nigeria delivered cargos with falsified bills of lading directly into the ports of Hamburg, Rotterdam or Miami at the convenience of the Russian mob's clients.

The twelve French Mistral ground to air missiles, formerly owned by the Serbians and soon to belong to the Irish Republican Army offspring PIRA would travel together with six SAGEM radars and 2500 AK-47 type assault rifles, purloined from the stocks of the Albanian Armed Forces in 2007.

The cargo with the romantic name ' Sherazade' was already loaded with his cover freight of high end Swedish designer furniture destined for the US market and high end agriculture equipment, destination Venezuela from the port of Rotterdam.

At this moment the 'Sherazade', brand-new, medium-sized, powerfully motorized and under the relatively respectable flag of Cyprus, was waiting for Rossinski's go at its second legal stop over, the port of Marseille, where containers with retrofitted agriculture equipment officially destined for Nicaragua was added.

The captain, a highly experienced, former Eastern German naval officer who had been going straight from the service in the NVA into the service of the Russian mob in the early 1990ies, had instructions to make one highly illicit and very discreet stop over after Marseille, before crossing the Atlantic ocean in a straight line.

In Marseille, where the 'Sherazade' had officially added the retrofits for Nicaragua, the man had also received a discreet attaché case from a collaborator of Rossinski's.

The attaché contained two sets of authentic French Customs container seals, which would replace the seals a Russian mob's team would be obliged to break in order to replace part of the retrofits with the military hardware they intended to smuggle into the US.

At Dakhla, a desperado port facility in the Western Sahara no-man's land right between Morocco and Mauretania, the 'Sherazade' would make an illicit stop over that did not figure on the ship's manifesto. The rendez vous was planned in about three days time and the East German captain would catch up this delay during the crossing. His staff of fifteen sailors was hand picked and from Russia. Considering the fact that they would travel with top end military hardware, Alexandr Rossinski had opted for his best cargo, his best captain and his best team.

Jacob Jarovsky had agreed with his Irish client, that one of their own would be present at Dakhla to check the ordered Mistrals and observe the loading of the cargo onto the 'Sherazade'.

The PIRA representative would be able to replace himself the French Customs seals on the containers and thus ensure that exactly what they had paid for was going onboard.

Alexandr Rossinski was a very prudent man and after acquiring the Mistrals from the Serbs or the AK-47 copies from the Albanians, he had taken care to put them into storage facilities in countries, where it was very easy to bribe officials, customs and police officers.

Western Sahara was not even a rock state. It was nothing at all; literally free fare for the rough, the tough and the ruthless: Western Sahara had been on the United Nations list of Non-Self-Governing Territories since the 1960s when it was a Spanish colony and the Kingdom of Morocco and the Polisario Front independence movement, who claimed to be the government of the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic or SADR, dispute control of the territory.

Western Sahara was also sparsely populated, arid and completely inhospitable and it was a marvelous place for people in Rossinski's line of business; not as client or seller –the Polisario was constantly short of money- but as a giant, uncontrollable storage facility that could be easily reached with either ship or aeroplane without undergoing unpleasant official controls.

Since a United Nations-sponsored ceasefire agreement in 1991, most of the territory had been controlled by Morocco, and the remainder by the Polisario/SADR, backed by Algeria.

More then half West Sahara's population lived in the town Al Aaíun in the Moroccon-control zone. Another 30.000 people lived the dangerous nomadic life of the Hassaniya-speaking tribes of mixed Arab-Berber heritage, that were also found in Mauretania, Morroco and Algeria.

Internationally, major powers such as the United States have taken a generally ambiguous and neutral position on each side's claims and after a multitude of failed attempts to solve the Western Sahara issue through the United Nations and other international instances, the Polisario had recently threatened to resume fighting, referring to the Moroccan refusal of a referendum as a breach of the cease-fire terms of 1991.

But most observers, Alexandr Rossinski included, considered armed conflict in the territory unlikely without the green light from Algeria, which housed the Sahrawis' refugee camps at Tindouf including the exile Polisario government and had been the main military sponsor of the movement ever since.

Rossinski called Jacob Jarovsky in Miami, informing his US colleague that his most precious goods would arrive in Miami within a fortnight! The copy of the 'Sherazade's' official manifesto and bill of lading was to be posted by DHL from Marseille as soon as customs formalities were concluded.

**

The French night shift surveillance team of the Organised Crime Unit – that evening hiding in a bluish Ford Transit van, who claimed to deliver fresh oysters and sea food to a nearby fashionable restaurant on avenue Foch – was enthusiastic. They had now the name of the cargo and an approximate date of delivery of their Mistrals to Miami. They also knew, that their missing ground-to-air missiles were stocked in storage facilities in the Polisario-controlled Western Saharan port of Dakhla. The team supervisor called his superiors.

***

Jacob Jarovsky entered his password for the Banco Espirito Santo International Ltd Grand Cayman branch and checked the balance on the account with the number 99432799568-00-231.

The basic Mistral missile was used with a man-portable launch unit had an infrared homing system, an effective range of 4 kilometers and flew high supersonic at Mach 2,6 or 800m per second. Since its initial deployment in 1988 the system had a 95% success rate for about 2000 missiles fired.

Mistrals were deployed by 37 armed forces of 25 countries, including Austria, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Cyprus, Estonia, Finland, France, Hungary, Indonesia, Morocco, New Zealand, Norway, Oman, Pakistan, South Korea, Singapore, South Africa, Spain and Venezuela. At the date of June 2009 over 16,000 missiles had been sold or ordered from the French company MBDA. Recently, industrial sources said the Royal Thai Navy had placed an order on several units of Sadral/Mistral air defence systems, a deal worth between 45.7 million and 76.2 million Euros. The systems were to be equipped on the Thai navy's two Naresuan class frigates and two newly built Pattani class OPVs. Mistrals were considered largely superior to their in-service concurents, such as the US-buildt FIM-92 Stinger and Starstreak missile, thee Russian-made 9K38 Igla or the British Blowpipe.

Preventing the acquisition and use of man-portable air defence systems , so –called MANPADS by terrorists and rebel groups has been a matter of concern since the early 1970s. However, despite the persistence of the threat MANPADS pose to aviation, it was only the 2002 al-Qaeda attack on an Israeli civilian aircraft flying out of Mombassa, Kenya, that focused world attention on the issue.

MANPADs were no novelty to Jacob Jarovski: Since the early 1970s terrorist and insurgent groups had acquired MANPADS from a variety of sources, including state sponsors, private arms dealers, poorly secured weapon depots, and other terrorists and insurgents. These missiles had been used to shoot down hundreds of military aircraft and dozens of civil aircraft. While data on the acquisition of MANPADS by terrorists and insurgents were patchy, historically, transfers from governments to non-state actors have been a major, if not the largest, source of MANPADS for these groups.

The Soviet Union provided its first-generation SA-7 missiles to North Viet Nam, who used them against US and South Vietnamese aircraft during the 1959–75 Viet-Nam War. In Afghanistan in the 1980s the USA shipped hundreds of US Stingers, British Blowpipes and even the Soviet Union's own SA series, which the Central Intelligence Agency,CIA obtained from a corrupt Polish general to anti-Soviet rebels.

By the time Soviet forces left Afghanistan in 1989, the Stinger missiles alone were credited with having downed nearly 270 Soviet planes and helicopters. Several former Soviet client states have also provided MANPADS to non-state actors. And in the 1970s and 1980s, Libyan leader Muammar Qadhafi supplied his Soviet-made missiles to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine PFLP and the Provisional Irish Republican Army PIRA.

These missiles were highly sought after on the black market and the French Mistrals were habitually the best deal, since France had kept a better eye on its MANPADs then most other nations. This made them also more interesting for the arms merchants. Relatively simple Russian MANPADs sold already from 1000 US a piece with the launching unit at about the same price. US MANPADs like the STINGER were a bit more expensive and could make up to 15.000 US a piece. Mistrals made up to 30.000 US with portable ATLAS launch units seling at 35.000 US.

Jacob Jarovsky was happy: The PIRA had not hesitated a second to transfer the lavish amount of 2 million US for his 12 ATLAS launch units together with 10 MISTRALs to each unit. He had no clue, what the PIRA could want to do with 120 MANPADs and suspected the Irish to have already a secondary buyer at hand, to finance part of their operation. He could not care less if the Irish made some bucks on their ex-Serbian hardware.

Jarovsky flipped his cell phone open and dialed Ivan Sarnoff's number.

***

When Claire returned from work, she was surprised to find her man in a rather strange disguise and all ready to go. Sand-coloured, army-style cotton and desert boots were not really Paddy's favourites outside their garden in Morgat. He was more the suits and ties type, even in the relatively hot French summer!

Padraig gave her a very

guilty smile. He had not told Claire, that the agreement with his former comrades was, that he would check in the MISTRALs and their launchers someplace in sub-Saharan Africa to make sure that the French got their missiles and the PIRA got their money back at Miami harbour.

He was glancing nervously at his watch and at his mobile. They had not much time. Altogether 72 hours. The Organised Crime surveillance team had already called earlier that afternoon, telling him the name of the cargo – 'Sherazade' and the location of the transfer - the Western Saharan port of Dakhla under POLISARIO authority.

A neutralised Falcon 50 aircraft of the French Intelligence Service DGSE was waiting at Villacoublay ready to start. They'd drop him off at Nouadhibou, a small and very discreet airport in Mauretania, right at the border with the West Saharan territory controlled by the Polisario and he'd do the rest to be at the rendezvous on time. It would be a race against the clock. There was only one means to cover the distance between Nouadhibou and Dakhla….a four wheels drive. But the region was spiked with land mines and perhaps the most dangerous ground in the world. And he could not even afford the luxury of a local guide; everything was tied down to speed and utmost discretion!

O'Flaherty had informed him that the 2 million US were already on the Banco Espirito Santo International Ltd Grand Cayman account with the number 99432799568-00-231 and that he expected the money back as soon as humanly possible.

Erwan de Kersausson had kept his word. Declan McFly had left his prison cell a free man that very morning and a rather promising job at the European Defence Agency EDA would go to an Irish candidate with strong ties to the Sinn Feín next Monday during the evaluation and recruiting meeting of the Agency. Another high-flying job with European Commission's Directorate General for Justice, Freedom and Security would also be Irish and Sinn Feìn before the end of the months. The French had withdrawn their candidate, talked the Germans into doing the same and were supporting their man.

"What are you intending to do, Paddy!" Claire enquired with a slightly annoyed twinge in her voice. She was neither blind, nor particularly stupid and could put two and two together within a nick of time.

Dr. Padraig O'Briain smiled contently. It had been a while since he'd been out in the field and messing around with things that 99% of the population of France would consider highly illegal and tremendously despicable.

"Giving Ryan a helping hand!" He replied matter-of-factly and padded his kaki-coloured backpack. He knew that Claire would not explode if he'd explain at least the basics.

"I am just going to Dakhla in the Western Sahara for a day or two, count some MISTRAL missiles and launch units, discreetly put trackers into the containers with the French hardware and come back home to you like a good boy!"

"So this is what you believe?" Claire replied vitriolic.

"There is nothing else, Dear! Just some basic check up on the Russians or else they will cheat! Would be stupid to hand them 2 million US and receive couple of second-hand tractors in exchange….."

Claire gave her man a look that would have frozen over the Equator in a second. "You are full of mischief, you rascal! This was Erwan, who talked you into this little adventure."

O'Briain shrugged his shoulders. It had been indeed Erwan! He did not feel all that much guilty….just a little bit. And it was much more efficient to have trackers in the containers then to spend hours at Miami harbour to figure out what belonged to France and what could be opened by the US Customs and seized in peace! Paris would see to it that their operative in Miami together with his team were present in the harbour.

****

Serge Poniatowski aka Tim Belkin returned from his meeting with Alexandr Rossinski in a state of elation. He was almost through and done with his undercover operation. He'd be even capable to keep his schedule with his girl friend and part for a well-merited four weeks holiday at La Rochelle. Good food, good fun and his brand new 9,80 m FIRST 30 sailing boat were waiting. All he had to do was to die a gory and spectacular death!

Ryan had done an excellent job, beating the living daylights out of that dunce hit man of Rossinski's last night rue Turbigo. The bloke had come back to headquarters with his tail between his legs and some spectacular haematomas, squealing and wailing that the CSI from Miami was a most dangerous adversary and on his guards.

Rossinski had not been pleased with his man. The poor bloke was now probably on his way back to Moscow and further punishment from 'Bratstvo' authority.

Poniatowski smiled. He'd change into a more convenient attire and equip himself with some hardware: Knife, classic knuckleduster, a .22LR with a silencer and the real Belkin's US passport.

He had already spoken to Ryan, who felt slightly guilty over his cute little show and was afraid that French authorities would take badly to him beating up Russians in the red light district.

Serge had assured him of the contrary and agreed with his Miami colleague on a first, discreet encounter at O'Connelly's. They'd do it right! Fourty-eight hours of hide and seek, a clever texto from Belkin's BlackBerry to his masters over in the US and a very fashionable midnight encounter with sufficient public somewhere on the banks of the river Seine.

Poniatowski felt, that the tourists on the popular 'Bateau-Mouches' would make a perfect audience and the fact that they'd be obliged to 'drag his lifeless body' from the smelly waters of Paris' key waterway would heighten the tension for both the media and the Miami branch of the 'Ismailovskaya'.

He was looking very much forward to die!

*****

Erica Sykes had been working overtime. She had only returned to her place to quickly feed the cats Al and Capone and to change into clean clothes. It was almost a miracle that she still appeared fit and pretty on the lunch time journal at 13 hours…..but some slap and a skilful make-up artist could do wonders…..even on dark circles under your eyes.

Erica had progressed nicely: The subject on gambling, gerrymandered horse races and the involvement of Miami's Russian mafia was ready for broadcasting. It was absolutely spectacular and worth at least a hit order from the mob! And she had progressed in the field of intelligence gathering: Maybe Lieutenant Caine and his CSIs had some problems to figure out Ivan Sarnoff's soft spots, but she had not: Erica had been cashing in mercilessly on favours and spending an entire annual CBS allocation of informant gratifications.

She could not care less! She'd replace the CBS money with money from her private pension fund before the company accountants would smell something strange. Her priority was Ryan and his safety and Ryan's safety had no price.

The prison guard from Bunker Hill had been extremely cooperative. He had provided her not only with information concerning Sarnoff and his friends but also with a couple of pretty good photographs of the woman, Ivan seemed to care for. Erica looked at the photographs: She was a pretty chick….perhaps 25 years old, well cared for and with beautiful, expensive jewellery. And she was not Russian. So Sarnoff's weak spot was a woman! Surprise, surprise!

She had the chick's name and now she needed help: Lieutenant Caine had impressed upon her to not contact him. He was –it seemed- under surveillance from the mob, but he had left her with the phone number and name of one of his colleagues, an IAB Sergeant –Rick Stetler!

Erica smiled: IAB were always working behind the lines, in secret and in hiding. It was rare that one of them would get in touch with the press, even rarer that his face would appear on television. Caine for all his faults and shortcomings had made a very clever choice. She dialled Stetler's cell phone number.

Hardly an hour later a pleasant looking, well-dressed man in his mid-forties joined Erica Sykes in a small tea room at about five minutes foot walk from the CBS TV4 premises. It was not a habitual journalists' hide out, but a place favoured by middle aged house wives and international mums who waited for their kids attending the Miami International High School.

Erica was pleasantly surprised with the Stetler guy. He was polite, soft-spoken and extremely comprehensive….and he seemed to honestly care for Ryan.

"I will run this Ramona Sanchez with the utmost discretion, Mrs. Sykes!" Stetler promised over some tea and scones. If humanly possibly, I shall put surveillance on her and see what she's about. She may be indeed a soft spot of Ivan Sarnoff's and this could help Wolfe, as soon as we have him inside the Dade Detention Facility.

Erica offered the man a straightforward smile. "I appreciate this, Sergeant Stetler!" She said. The IAB guy had also given her a USB key with scans from an three in-house enquiries he had run on Ryan following some fits of temper that had got her man in some trouble with his authorities.

"You may wish to exploit these in your subject!" He suggested. " Also it is not much and from my personal point of view rather exaggerate disciplinary measures against an officer for minor breaches of protocol, you can perhaps spice them up and invent some story around, that would make Ryan appear a bad cop. The Chief of the MDPD is aware of the fact that I provided you with information and we will see to it to make some convenient blunders….perhaps during a press conference…."

Erica nodded and handed a small envelop to the IAB sergeant. "This is some unexpected bounty from my own investigations, ." She explained politely. "Some footage on a person, who was mentioned by Lieutenant Caine in connection with the surveillance of your CSIs and there is a titbit on an investigation you seem to run against a relative of one of your collaborators. I caught this conversation between two members of Sarnoff's mob by accident two days ago in a bar, where these people habitually meet to talk business. It may not be splendid quality, but you will get the essentials and find out, that a specific road accident with traces of casualty was simply a make up and that the person, whose blood was retrieved from the vehicle in question is still alive and kicking and has left Miami for Seattle."

Rick Stetler accepted the envelop gratefully. He understood that Erica Sykes had some information but not the overall picture and he made immediately the link between CSI Dusquene's father's accident and the tape recording. He decided to not enlighten the journalist and pass her intelligence immediately on to the CSI Night Shift and the homicide detective investigating Kenwall Dusquene on his behalf. He had been extremely upset with CSI Dusquene and her father's most dangerous addiction to alcohol ever since a first incident some five years earlier. But he was the last man in the MDPD who would let the tippling attorney or his very stressed daughter suffer for nothing.

"I highly appreciate your cooperative spirit, !" He tanked Erica politely. "As soon as we receive further information from the French police forces, I will get in touch with you, so you can arrange for a convenient time slot for your Russian mob subject."


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 32 Humbug the Wolfe

*

Their mole at the MDPD Crime Lab had come back to him with more news on Lieutenant Horatio Caine and his team.

It was incredible, how many secrets some people would reveal for ridiculous sums of money!

The Crime Lab mole was a typical case; a civil employee, charged with the boring task to push a caddy with files from one part of the lab to the other. He did this eight hours a day and five days a week with 14 days of paid holidays per year and the misery of 1200 Dollars per months.

Alijosha had hardly been surprised when the file man had taken the bait and his offer of another 1000 US per months for whatever he saw, heard or considered noteworthy.

The file caddy pusher was much cheaper and much easier to handle then one Rossi, self-proclaimed private investigator and owner of dozens of nasty DVD-ROMs containing even nastier information on their targets. Alijosha had saved Rossi's life with Jarovsky, although Leo did not know that! Cross-checking the MDPD file caddy man via Rossi had already cost him 20 grands in hardly a week's time and he had just touched the peek of the iceberg!

While Kenwall Dusquene had apparently escaped the clutches of justice with his lawyer successfully pleading 'No body, no crime!', the MDPD was not so understanding: An internal investigation on the matter was still ongoing, apparently ordered by the MDPD Chief himself. CSI Dusquene had been put on the sidelines by the Internal Affaires Bureau IAB and was very much affected by her father's mishap.

The mole had explained to Danilenko, that surprisingly, Lieutenant Caine had not taken any interest in the whole matter, but continued to pursue something that appeared to be a case of his own.

Alijosha Danilenko was very much satisfied with his little intrigue and scheme: They were breaking them! Horatio Caine's CSI Day Shift was breaking!

The mole had been reporting that Tripp the homicide detective working habitually with their bunch had been reassigned to some special duty and was replaced by another homicide detective. With Caine rather absent and Dusquene on the sidelines, the work load had been literally taken over by Natalia BoaVista and her scientific staff. Delko, while junior to CSI Dusquene was obviously substituting for the Lieutenant and running the show. Delko, BoaVista and Valera had been on a most curious case - a plastic surgeon eaten up by a giant wood chipper at 5 o'clock in the morn and literally shredded to pieces – and solved it with speed and bravado, notwithstanding lack of personnel.

Concerning Wolfe, all the mole could tell were hearsays, was that the CSI had been put on sick leave to recover from several bones he'd broken in the line of duty. The info had been spilled by the habitually very discreet Maxine Valera over a coffee break with the trace technician -Travers, who habitually worked with Wolfe.

So their sophisticate plan was paying off: Horatio Caine's team was still working, but they worked no longer together and seemed to have lost all interest in the Bratstvo.

Caine seemed to be mainly in and out with the MDPD Chief and the higher authorities of Dade County's law enforcement system. He was probably sucking up with the bosses and doing some career management. Horatio's discreet shadow –Alijosha had replaced Cameron West with another man, after the greasy little paparazzi had attracted too much attention – had taken some pictures of the Lieutenant together with a newly instated assistant state attorne -Derek Powell- an energetic former criminal lawyer, with whom the police officer seemed to get along very well.

There was nothing curious here: Caine habitually worked with Judges Ewan McGregor and Franklin and since Powell was the newcomer on the 11th Judicial and with the Miami-Dade State Attorney….no harm could be done by befriending the right man in the right place!

The only b-moll so far was CSI Ryan Wolfe; Danilenko had been convinced that the police officer would go down easily, considering the fact that he was physically hurt, psychologically destabilized, all alone out in the wild and tracked by a dangerous and very professional hunter……but instead, Wolfe had given them the slip, changed continent, re-disappeared in the crowd and after finally having been found with some difficulties was now kicking the living daylights out of Rossinski's hit men!

Danilenko supposed, that Wolfe – by now- was perfectly aware of the fact that he had someone dangerous on his trail. The story Alijosha'd heard from Rossinski was rather discouraging and Belkin had been ordered to proceed with utmost care.

Alijosha hoped that their man would succeed, where Rossinski's guy –uninvited and without orders – had failed or else he'd be in for some rather rough moments with Nevzorov, answering a lot of very uncomfortable questions. And this would not be very good for his career in the Bratstvo……

They had unfortunately seriously underestimated Wolfe! He had seriously underestimated Wolfe!

**

Ronald Wellesley Guggenheim had hardly time to put down his luggage and prepare himself a cup of tea. He had just returned from his habitual, annual cruise in the Carribean – four lazy weeks on a lavish ship together with a group of good, old friends – when the crazy blinking of the answering machine had drawn his attention.

"You have 55 messages" the machine said on its LCD screen and each and every message had been exactly the same; little Erica Sykes, Ryan's sweet ex-fiancée insisted that he should call her as soon as possible and that it was extremely urgent!

Ron had been very much surprised when Ryan had broken up with the girl some two years earlier for very obscure reasons and ever since the break up, Erica had limited herself to sending him just birthday and Christmas cards and calling him on January 1st to wish him a Happy and Healthy New Year. And now, in the midst of the year, all of a sudden, 55 phone callsfrom her in a row?

Ron immediately dialled Ryan's number. Was the young man in trouble or even worse….had something happened to him in the line of duty?

Ryan's private cell phone was on voice mail, telling Ron that the mail box was full and that he should try and call another day. His private phone at home did not reply either. Finally the old man decided to dial his grand-nephew's service phone number only to realise that this cell, too was shut down!

The old gentleman felt suddenly very uneasy: Before he had left to travel the oceans four weeks earlier, they had been out for a nice diner in Ron's club. Dining together was their habit about once a week. Ryan had not spoken to Ron about any plans to travel or to leave Miami and he had not mentioned anything else that would cause such a complete shut down of communications channels.

Ron considered calling a taxi and paying the younger man a visit, but rejected the idea immediately: If Ryan did not answer his phone, he was simply not in! Perhaps it was indeed easier to come back to his ex-fiancée and answer her call first!

They talked for almost an hour. The girl had heaved a great sigh of relieve, as soon as she'd identified Ron's voice. First Ryan's grand-uncle had mainly listened to the journalist, then he had asked her a couple of rather astute questions. She had answered without hesitation, expressing to Ronald deep concern and great worry for his grand-nephew. Finally the old gentleman had promised her to see what he could do.

It was out of the question to simply give her the phone number in France and be done with it, even if Erica's revelations had been rather scary.

Their family seemed to be literally booked for problems with the criminal hydra that had grown from the abyss of the downfall of the evil Soviet empire, ever since Clemence's unruly youngest daughter Mary had discovered herself at the tender age of 20 in 1969 a fatal penchant for a dashing rebel and the cause of Irish Freedom.

Col. (ret.) Ronald Wellesley Guggenheim had never been particularly enchanted with this choice of Clemence's daughter that had finally gotten the overexcited and fanatic girl killed in a flash of light and fire and he had been ever since wary of her 'dashing Irish rebel', but he had always liked Mary's boy Ryan and never held him responsible for his bad genetic choices.

On behalf of good old Clemence and 'the Irish rebel's' new lady love, a pretty down to earth and stubborn French woman, who seemed to care honestly for his grand-nephew, Ron had taken many pains to help hide Ryan's most embarrassing kinship with an unrepentant and dangerous terrorist and a disreputable Irish family that had made it a vocation to kill Brits, ever since William of Orange had won the Battle of the Boyne.

And if the young man had not told Erica himself, he would not take upon him to blurt out the truth, also he admitted that the reasons had given him were pretty good.

Ron served himself a very straight Bourbon, sipped it determinedly and tried to convince his 89 years old brain to work at higher speed: Ryan was genetically disadvantaged by his rebel father and hare brain mother, even if Mary had been 50% a Guggenheim. But this was not the boy's fault!

It was entirely possible that Clemence's grandson had gotten himself once again into very deep trouble! Ryan seemed so terribly incline to get himself into trouble…..with an inheritance of his father's hot temper, Irish stubbornness and O'Briain reckless courage and an inclination to follow his heart…..no matter the consequences, Ron would not be surprised. It had already been a little victory over that fatal heritage, that the boy had chosen the rather respectable profession of police officer instead of his father's melodramatic cloak-and-dagger occupation.

The old man gave his watch a casual glance, considered politeness a loss of time and dialled the phone number at Saint Nom La Bretech in Francee. He hoped honestly that the 'farmer's daughter' would reply on the phone…..not his infamous relative-in-law of many Belfast bomb and shoot-outs.

***

Professor Charpentier felt pretty much exhausted and ready to pummel the next innocent face that would dare to look into her tidy and well organised morgue. She'd even pummel the next innocent cadaver the assistants would push through the door!

It was hardly six o'clock in the morning and her day was already completely ruined!

Her more reasonable and more relaxed self rather liked Colonel (retired) Ronald Wellesley Guggenheim, former companion of Wild Bill Donovan, Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur, DSO and Silver Star and hero of many a swashbuckling World War II adventure and she recalled the fact that the guy was approaching the 100 with giant strides.

She had met him only twice in person…..once when Clemence had made some important changes to her testament that included not only Ryan and Paddy but also her, Paddy's chosen partner in life and the second time, when they had buried Mary Wolfe's mother some years later in a small private graveyard on the grounds of Castel Mond on Belle-Ile-sur-Terre.

These two times she'd also seen the old rascal confronting Padraig, and she had wished for a huge baseball bat and the courage to hit both men very hard over the head…. Claire had always admired Ryan who was capable to suffer both Padraig and Uncle Ron without an instant nervous breakdown or the sudden desire to commit gory double homicide à la Norman Bates in Psycho.

Claire was pretty much aware of the fact that Ronald Wellesley Guggenheim was very old, terribly eccentric, a life long bachelor and mysogynic, mad as a rabbit and not really the most favourite person in the life of her own man….but he has always been very caring about Ryan and seemed to love the younger O'Briain as much as he was able to love another human being.

Well! Claire knew it was more reasonable to calm down. For once, Ron's phone call had really nothing to do with Paddy …………….Surprise, surprise! And the geriatric war hero had not even mentioned her man's name…..but he had mentioned another name….Claire had heard this name very often over the years and most of the time it had put a sparkle of excitement into Ryan's eyes.

Erica!

Claire gave the body on her autopsy table a thoughtful look……a young woman….a Jane Doe who had drugged herself into oblivion and died a lonely and gruesome death in the squalid toilets of an ill-famed third-class night club on Champs-Elysée.

Jane Doe was dead. Claire could no longer help her and by the scruffy look of the corpse nobody had cared for that girl in a very long time. She was not even twenty-five, but she looked as if she were fifty and the punctures between her toes showed that she had been already beyond the pale when she'd placed the fatal 'Golden Shot'. Claire drew the white shroud over Jane Doe, pushed the body back into the freezer, made a small note on the dossier. She'd leave Jane Doe to one of her assistants.

It was more important to take care of those alive and who were close to her heart!

****

Rick Stetler adjusted his smart, green and blue silk tie and brushed his fingers nervously through his hair. He was not used to so much positive attention. Habitually the IAB was shunned like pest and cholera together….even by the higher ranks of law enforcement for whom his kind represented nothing but a necessary evil.

But for the last couple of days he'd somehow developed from ugly little duckling into beautiful swan. The Chief's secretary had even offered him coffee and the Chief himself was all smiles and buddy-buddy.

"So everything is going according to plan and you even managed to reap some additional benefits from this cooperation with the media?"

Stetler swallowed and tried to compose himself. " We have indeed!" He replied, placing several rather bad photographs in front of the boss. " Following the encounter with Mrs. Sykes I had the material immediately processed and through a contact at Seattle we managed to locate the lady. She is alive and unharmed and it appears that a rather solid bundle of dollars had encouraged her to donate blood and leave Miami."

Rick had chosen to employ the term 'we' instead of 'I'. He was rather fair play and it was mainly thanks to Caine's cooperative spirit and straightforwardness that –for once- he was not only in the loop but right in the middle of some exciting action.

One of his collaborators was taking care of the two boring patrollers who improved their weekly pay check with racket on Chinese restaurants and he could devoted himself entirely to the case against the Russian mob in Miami.

Within a short timeframe of less then 72 hours, Rick had recovered all his old policeman reflexes and was now operating at cruising speed.

It became him well; he felt once again alive and appreciated by his colleagues, even if these colleagues were just Caine and Tripp and the Chief and Caine's pet attorney Derek Powell.

But this was better then nothing after having been literally shunned by everybody for the last six years.

"So CSI Dusquene's father was basically set up?"

Stetler nodded. He would go and tell Calleigh himself. He owned her that.

"I have been investigating the issue a bit and it turns out that he did not even take the wheel…..unfortunately the patron of the pub, where attorney Dusquene finished the evening together with his friend attorney Parker Yates cannot remember what the man looked like, but he's formal…….CSI Dusquene's father did not drive and they were only two in his Range Rover….two men, no female…."

The Chief nodded. "I will call the Public Defender's Office and set things straight for Kenwall Dusquene. He may be an alcoholic, but he is a good man and one of the best public defenders in Dade County. You did an excellent job, Rick…as always. Now tell me about your other latest findings!"

Stetler moved a bit in his chair, allowed himself to slip into a comfortable position and even took a sip of coffee. He had never ever been in such a situation with his boss. Habitually the MDPD Chief would just call him in to berate him or to push more case load into the hands of his already overburdened IAB office. He'd figure out later how to cope with his newly found popularity! Now he had some more important things at hand.

"The young female who is regularly visiting Ivan Sarnoff has no record with our services. But she seems to be linked indirectly to another person that the IRS and Special Agent Eliott are investigating at this moment. A certain Alex Daniels, of Russian origin. Sarnoff's girl friend is the governess of a relative of Daniel's."

"You contacted the IRS?" The Chief gave a malicious smile.

He was very much satisfied with the evolution of their cooperation with the French and with the IRS. If they'd succeed, he'd reap a maximum benefit for the MDPD and for himself. If not, hardly anybody would ever notice; other Caine, Tripp and Stetler of his own services only the State Attorney's Office and the IRS were in the secret and the IRS would not spill, because they had more then they could chew for at least six months from the pick bag of the French and serious expectations to squeeze several of Sarnoff's closest associates for tax fraud. Peter Eliott's boss had been speaking about several million dollars!

At its worst, MDPD would allow IRS gracefully to bring down the boss of the Miami Russian mob on tax charges, just like Al Capone. Sarnoff was already serving a solid prison sentence for illegal gambling, race fixing and extortion.

The French information on the roguish real estate deals over boat slids in several of Miami's most fanciful marinas could easily add another five to ten years to his already considerable sentence.

The Chief flipped through the folder on his desk. His secretary had brought in a telex from the French, informing him that the weapons' shipment had already left Marseille and was halfway to a god-forsaken rogue harbour facility in Sub-Sahara. In about two weeks of time, MDPD and US Customs would have a hay day together!

"Rick?" The Chief's eyes had settled onto the personnel file and ID photo of CSI Ryan Wolfe. He'd never paid much attention to Horatio Caine's staff, but he remembered their names and the faces from a rather childish fit, former Assistant State Attorney Monica West had thrown in his office some four years ago and which had led to a rather entertaining 'Three-Way' during which he had observed Horatio's CSIs handling the intriguing case of the homicide of Pool Boy Armando Diaz without the guiding hand of their superior.

"Do you think Wolfe's really up to pull such an elaborate scheme through and to face up to Ivan Sarnoff in such a hostile environment as Miami Dade Detention Facilities, with no back up at all?" He was skimming through the records of the young CSI and stated at the end, that the boy had a mind of misdemeanour in a world of felony.

Wolfe seemed to be pretty small cake compared to officers like Jake Berkley or the deceased John Hagen and pretty much a baby face compared with Horatio himself. Ok, h.'s young CSI had very nice academic credentials and seemed to be pretty strong in the brains department including an ongoing PhD in Genetics with some reputed professor from Boston College and he'd finished Police Academy with the best score in the last 25 years.

But besides having got himself honourably shot and nailed on duty and having received three icky little slaps on his fingers for minor misdemeanour in seven years of service, there was not much to that HR file that proved that the guy was really tough and mean.

And with his rather angelic face and soft hazel eyes Wolfe looked more like easy prey for the nasty pensioners of Bunker Hill then a serious opponent for the man who managed the most dangerous crime organisation in Florida ever since the demise of the Mala Noche and Antonio Riaz.

Stetler sipped his coffee and kept his own counsel for a while. He'd been thinking along the same lines as the Chief, when Horatio had explained the plan a few days ago. But he had also known Ryan Wolfe for years and the young CSI was not easy to figure out: He was still a dark grey zone on Rick's radar.

It was tremendously difficult, nonetheless he managed to deliver the sentence credibly and without a hint of malice or anger. "I do believe that Lieutenant Caine made the right choice, Sir! He knows his personnel and their capacities. He would not have chosen CSI Wolfe if he was not absolutely certain that the officer be up to this type of mission!"

Rick lowered his head and pretended to be suddenly very much interested in the pattern of the Chief's office carpet. Horatio had not chosen Wolfe. It was rather Ivan Sarnoff who had separated the apparently weakest animal from its fellows and set his pack of hounds after the deer. But it would do no good to tell the Chief and put at risk the surprising benefits they were actually receiving, because this deer on the run was muchr stronger and much more cunning then the hunters had expected.

There were many moments in time, when Stetler resented Horatio and the fact that Caine had received something he had desired from the bottom of his heart and which was now most certainly but a dream. But he had never ever been unloyal or perfidious towards Horatio….he'd been hard on the CSIs and occasionally rather wicked with H., but in the end, he had always tried to support the Lieutenant and his team as best as he could and keep them out of harm within the limits of his powers as an IAB.

"Very well, Sir!" The Chief concluded contentedly. He appreciated Stetler's calm and professionalism and his untainted view on the whole business.

He was happy that he had followed Horatio Caine's advise and brought the discreet and unobtrusive IAB Sergeant into the game. Rick was an asset and an excellent in-between with the media and with the other services with whom they cooperated. Should the case 'Ivan Sarnoff' be concluded successfully, he'd make sure that Stetler finally got his promotion to Lieutenant. It was important to motivate good people!

****

Erica Sykes had been working under high pressure: Her three times 25 minutes on the Russian mob, gambling and rotten apples in the MDPD was ready and independently from Ryan and Lieutenant Caine's foolhardy gambit, she considered it by far the best subject she'd ever done.

She padded Al, who laid peacefully on her knees and gently extracted the wire of her computer mouse from the hairy grey paws of Capone.

"That's it boys!" She gave a sigh of relieve, safeguarding the important text file she'd created in three sleepless nights based upon her own investigations and the interesting intelligence received from Horatio Caine and Sergeant Rick Stetler. Stetler had been a great support. He had checked out everything she could not check herself and called twice a day in order to make sure she was coping and well. He was a real little sweat heart and by now her favourite police officer…after Ryan.

The recordings were ready and her informants' budget was not only empty but so deeply in the red that she'd be obliged to hit her piggybank with a huge hammer over the head. She was rather looking forward to this exciting new form of anger management!

Erica was perfectly aware of the fact that Lieutenant Caine had not told her everything and that she knew only pieces of the whole story. This did not matter at the moment. Stetler had checked the Ramona Sanchez woman and she had done some sleuth work herself. The woman had –according to Rick- no record and was according to Erica and her sources Snow White. But Snow White had her Seven Dwarves and these dwarves were far from being innocent and cute.

Dwarf Number one was a giant brute with a face only a mother could love. He went by the Americanised name Peter Taylor, but his true name was –according to a buddy in the State Department – Piotr Tambowski and he hailed from Moscow's notorious suburb Chimkii. Piotr had come to the US five years ago on a visa sponsored by…..Ivan Sarnoff and after a short, but rather provitable career in super-heavy weight extreme fighting for Sarnoff's Aegean Club, Piotr had been hired as a bouncer at one of the two night clubs belonging to high-end Miami eating place 'The Forge'…….and 'The Forge' belonged to another dwarf who had very close ties to……Ivan Sarnoff, who had sponsored his visa another couple of years ago.

Erica served herself another cup of Earl Grey and cork-screwed a mangled and slightly destroyed piece of notes from the paws of Capone, who continued to rummage through her working environment. "Go chase mice in the garden!" She chided Ryan's giant grey tom.

Her Inbox showed a cute little dog with a hanging tongue!

OSS 117 had finally managed to overcome 89 years of prejudices on working girls and his ingrained secret-mongering. OSS 117 –Hubert Bonisseur de la Bath was a fictional secret agent initially from the pen of prolific French author Jean Bruce and described as being an American colonel from Louisiana of French descent. It was also Erica's very secret e-mail code name for Ryan's very eccentric and misogynists grand uncle Ronald Wellesley Guggenheim of World War II fame and many a hilarious diner party. She could not prevent herself from admiring that old loony. He was quite capable of handling IT technology.

"Bless you, OSS 117!" Erica chuckled. She copy-pasted the e-mail address, typed some polite words in French and asked the recipient who went with the ludicrous e-mail address to simply hand the write-protected pdf. over to Ryan.

Erica was perfectly aware of the fact that 'Uncle Ron' was a loony, but she knew also perfectly well that the old chap would never ever do anything that would be dangerous for his grand nephew.

"In for a Penny, in for a Pound!" She told their two cats, considering that a quote from the Duke of Wellington, conqueror of Napoleon Bonaparte, was rather adapted to the situation. And instead of pressing the 'Enter button' to send her message, she typed in a PS.

"And whoever you are…..please tell that nasty Irish Pooka[1], that I still love him and that I miss him desperately!"

Before she could change her mind, Erica send the message into the WWW and hoped for the best.

****

Assistant State Attorney Derek Powell turned the screen of his laptop, so Sergeant Frank Tripp and Commander Regine Marais could see his handiwork. He was rather proud of himself. Also the French Republic - for once - would not oppose a US request of extradition according to the Franco-American Treaty of 1909 with the excuse that the aggrieved party was running the risk to face a penalty in contradiction with the Constitution of France and the European Charter on Human Rights…..which simply meant 'death penalty', Powell was still very proud of himself….The text was really well drafted.

Habitually –since abolishing death penalty in 1981 - France did not extradite foreign nationals to countries where they could face the death penalty. The US, perfectly aware of this fact had only filed about 20 requests over the last 25 years.

"I have found the perfect argument, Frank!" he explained to Sergeant Tripp. Commander Marais seemed to be pretty fluent in French law and had helped him a lot with his chore.

"Ryan's a commissioned police officer and he's only on sick leave….nobody fired him…."

Frank Tripp nodded enthusiastically. He had felt slightly overwhelmed by the heavy tomes on Powell's work desk and which filled –one after the other- cases since 1909, when the Republic had refused to extradite felons to the US.

The issue of getting Ryan out of France upon a credible administrative piece of paper and straight into Dade Detention Facility with a cover that was sufficiently solid to keep the kiddo out of harms way, had been a serious headache for him, since he had learned from a telex, that the cargo who would carry the stolen French Mistrals was already on its way to a nasty rock state to load the missiles and that Ryan would be obliged to commit his 'gory crime' somehow within the next 72 hours. So it was better they prepared…..

Commandant Regine Marais gently padded Derek Powell's hand. Then she smiled at Tripp.

"Guys, that's enough! This looks very good. As long as the 'culprit' does not oppose his extradition with the help of a bunch of lawyers, nobody in France will try and do whatsoever…..and I am not entirely convinced that Ryan will suddenly call in Jaques Verges[2] just to put a bit of spice into our whole business."

The French legal attaché was indeed very admirative of ASA Powell's skilful work and Sergeant Frank Tripp's stout support, but thye were not negotiating a real extradition of a recalcitrant criminal, but a make-up with two parties who had already agreed to play it smooth and cool. She took things into her own hands, saved the document Powell had produced and put it into a folder with the ludicrous name 'CSI BlackOps'.

"Now you two relax and we are ordering some nice Chinese take away and couple of beers."

She ordered Powell's laptop to shut down and made the device disappear in a drawer. "It is almost midnight and I have been sitting here since 9 in the morning….maybe your bosses pay overtime….but mine do not"

Tripp lifted his two bear pawns in defeat and ASA Derek Powell shock his head in despair. In the MDPD, Regine would never ever have made it beyond uniformed patroller with her big mouth and highly eccentric behaviour. But in the French law enforcement system she was quite the 'big head' and it was her who would or would not advise the French legal authorities…

Regine understood the man immediately. He was much too serious and very preoccupied with the books. "Derek, …" she chided him kindly, "….we are not discussing Mister Noriega, just a stray CSI who has already agreed to go right into the Lion's Den!".

* * *

[1] No fairy is more feared in Ireland than the pooka. This may be because it is always out and about after nightfall, creating harm and mischief, and because it can assume a variety of terrifying forms. The guise in which it most often appears, however, is that of a sleek, dark horse with sulphurous yellow eyes and a long wild mane. In this form, it roams large areas of countryside at night, tearing down fences and gates, scattering livestock in terror, trampling crops and generally doing damage around remote farms.

[2] Famous French lawyer, very, very nasty


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 33 The Patriot Game**

*

'What a dreadful place,' O'Briain said. Dakhla with about 65.000 inhabitants and some 550 km to the South of Al Aaíun lay on a narrow peninsula of the Atlantic coast. It was the capital of the Oued Ed-Dahab-Lagouira, had been founded as _Villa Cisneros_ in 1502 by Spanish settlers during the expansion of their Empire and today, in 2009 after decades of neglect and civil war was just a ramshakle full of dirt, misery and poverty in the midst of one of the most hostile regions of the world. The main economic activity of the town –other allowing all sorts of illegal trafficking – was fishing. But the sunset at Dakhla was magnificent, almost like one at sea. The sky was clear of the usual urban pollution and the dunes gave a crisp, if crenelated line for the sun to slip behind.

The odd thing was the temperature range pf course. The noon temperature had reached 35,5°C – and the locals thought of this as a cool day. But now as the sun sank, a cool wind came up and soon the temperature would drop to freezing. The sand could not hold the heat, and with the clear, dry air, it would just radiate away, back to the stars.

Padraig knew sub-saharan Africa very well indeed. He'd spend a considerable amount of time in desert training camps in Lybia, in Chad, in Mauretania and even here in Western Sahara in the zone that had always been held by the POLISARIO. Unlike most men born in the higher latitudes, he had no trouble tolerating this sort of climate. At sixty years of age, O'Briain had never slacked down, also his job as habitual job as a Professor of Celtic Studies did not really require excellent physical condition, nerve and marksmanship! Apart the salt and pepper in his close cropped hair, he did not look a day older then 45, which was quite an advantage, since his ID showed exactly that age.

O'Flaherty and his friends had provided Padraig with a exellent and absolutely authentic Irish passeport on the name of Sean Miller, who looked sufficiently alike to rise no suspicions. Should his Russian contacts be encline to check up on Sean, they'd find exactly, what the would be looking for….a real adress, a real past and an authentic criminal record and time in prison for "patriotic" activities.

The real Sean Miller had also a considerable amount of entry and exit visas from most curious countries in his passport….including Afghanistan, Lybia, Algeria and a couple of other not so recommendable vacation locations. And at this moment in time Sean would not mind being without his ID, for he was spending a peaceful sejourn in a private medical facility in Belgium, where some clever doctors tried to arrange a knee problem, that would keep the comrade placid and locked up for at least eight to twelve weeks.

Padraig was nonetheless tired. It had been that sort of a day! The French had dropped him like a hot potato at Nouadhibou in DGSE bloke who had been on the Falcon 50 with him had pushed a solid envelop full of US Dollars into his hands, had given him a smart Beretta 93 R Full Automatic and a doggy bag with five 20-rounds box magasines and had added a cute Kalashnikov AK 47.

A man without a Russian-made assault rifle would look slightly out of place in this region and furthermore it was easy to get fresh ammo together with the water bottles and food stuff at the local grocer's for a handfull of bucks. Paddy liked Kalashnikovs…..they'd given him a good one!

He had taken the easy way from to Nouadhibou to Dakhla. For 2000 Dollars he had hired a local with a slightly shabby but still complete Cessna 702, who had flown him over the landmine infested desert and right into Dakhla Airport without asking any questions. The additional free-of-charge plus had been that no "border patrol" of the POLISARIO had asked him, why he came to Dakhla, what he wanted there and how much they could get from him, if they'd just leave him alone. The disadvantage was, that O'Briain had only his two well-trained legs as means of transportation. But the contact with the Russians was ok and they had promised a "taxi".

Two headlights appeared on the horizon, heading south towards his place. The horizon was far away. He put his arms into the sleeves of his well-worn kaki jacket to ward off the gathering chill as he watched the lights slid left and right, their conical beams tracing over the dunes. The driver was taking his time. The lights weren't bouncing about. The man was careful of his vehicle and the climate made it pretty hard for a man to push himself. Things would get done tomorrow. God willing- Insh'Allah. A comrade from the Basque ETA had once told Padraig that Insh'Allah meant the same thing as "mañana"-but without the urgency.

The vehicle was your standard "liberation movement" Toyota Landcruiser, the four-wheel that had replaced the Land Rover in most places. Paddy checked his watch. He had not been sleeping for 48 hours. Paddy didn't care. The RUC had once tried to make him crack that way, but they had given up before he had faltered.

He pushed his AK-47 behind his back, made sure that the Beretta was in reach and the security withdrawn, pushed the little bag with his trackers deeper into the pocket of his sand coloured trousers and hoped that the bloke who'd pick him up was not an old acquaintance….else he'd start his Western Sahara vacation with cold blooded murder and some hare brain excuse in the port of Dakhla.

Claire would skin him alive, boil him in hot oil and probably have him castrated by the local vet; he had been careful to not told his woman, that the boys and O'Flaherty wanted him to go onboard the 'Sherazade' if humanly possible in order to see the MISTRALs and radars right into the hands of the French and their attaché case with 2 million Dollars right back to Europe and the Sínn Fein bank account.

While they liked to work with the French, who had always been most understanding with the Irish….they also liked to see the colour of their money…..Paddy did not care: Ever since he had turned respectable, his life had been pretty much quiet and university classes would not start before September 2nd…which meant another 8 weeks without responsibilities. And he could always plead extenuating circumstances with his favourite Harpy….he was only trying to help Ryan…..

Padraig hoped that the French legal attachée in Miami had a good idea how to get him out of the US and back home as soon as they were done with the 'seizure' of the 'Sherazade'!

**

It was surprising how little sleep you needed when there was important work to be done!

When Ryan's third cell – the secure French police cell – rang at five in the morning, he literally bounced from his flea-ridden and slightly unstable bed at 'Hotel de l'Etoile'. And hardly fifteen minutes later he was sneaking out of the hotel through the back entry and worming his way into a tiny little sidewalk off rue Saint Denis. Nobody had seen him go! Ryan would have given his right hand for a huge cup of strong coffee. He felt as if the entire US NFL had passed over him. He was not striktly speaking a morning person: He liked his coffee, his breakfeast and his creature comforts.

He entered through a back door of a rather delabrate building and found himself in an antics. Apart a delabrate table upon which a discreet hand had placed an envelop without a name, Ryan saw nothing . He considered the envelop his, folded it and pushed it into the pocket of his well-worn leather jacket. The gaffe with the Russian mobster hd been fortunately without consequences.

Emanuellle's hooker friends had been kind enough to prevent the worst and since until now nobody from Paris law enforcemet had knocked on his jittery door to book him for 'coups et blessures' – criminal assault, everything seemed to be fine. Anyhow, he had just pressed a knife against the bloke's jugular…..the many blacks and blues were courtesy of the hookers and the Chinese. He was more or less innocent…..

Ryan left the sordid premises and decided against a tour back into his sordid hotel room. At six o'clock in the morning, some of the more decent places in Paris 9th arrondisment would already open up for customers… A large breakfeast would leave him refreshed for his daily "hanging around" even if he could not get a shower and shave. Touring the pubs was after all the only past time left to him until he'd receive a texto from Poniatowski.

Ryan accelerated his pace. Paul's was a good place. Nobody would pay attention to an unshaved guy in worker's outfit. He had offered himself the luxury of two days with nine hours of sleep. He felt rather refreshed. And his reminders of that nightly encounter with one Dimitrij Belkin were slowly fading. Even the ribs were on the mend!

His physical condition was much better then a week ago. He had actually even gained a few pounds under Claire's loving care, but he had already run them off on the streets. A forsaken place like the 9th was good for that.

Ryan got himself a café creme and two croissants. He retired into a cosy corner, retrived the envelop from his pocket and flipped through the pages.

That was incredible! Caine had somehow managed to bully Erica into a coopération and his woman had not only taken Horatio's challenge to heart and started to rumage thoroughly through the antics of the mob, but she'd gone further and dug deep….very deep.

He had not expected Erica's help and he most certainly did not want it. He loved her, he still loved her desperately and he wanted his woman out of harms way…..preferably some place like the Kerguelen Islands on the other side of the world. Alredeady that stupid stunt she'd pulled with Leo and Sienna had almost driven him over the edge and the flesh wound on Erica's arm had hurt more then the nail in his eye and the two 9 mils in his shoulder a couple of years ago taken together. Ryan was old fashioned; he did not care all too much for his own safety and well being, but he cared for his girl….

He was already mightily pissed with Paddy who had accepted de Kersausson's challenge and was counting MISTRAL missiles somewhere in the Western Sahara. But Paddy was a big boy who could take good care of himself! Ryan was not tremendously worried about his father. Padraig was well aquainted with all the nasty little rock states on the other side of the Mediteranean. He was also mean, lean and pretty much self-sufficient, as long as he had a calibre, a couple of magazines, carte blanche and the freedom to do whatever he liked…. Paddy had always lived by the sword…..!

But the idea of Erica snooping after Sarnoff's friends gave Ryan the creeps. "Damn" He whispered to himself. She was on the other side of the Atlantic, far away and all on her own….and he was here…sipping coffee and waiting for a texto.

It wasn't that much that things were getting pretty tight for him or that his father was philandering like a grouse on a shooting range….it was just that he'd discovered that his boss had put a life at stake that was very precious to him….more precious then his own.

Their operation had been meticulously planned, everything done just right until now, a primary plan and a number of alternates, with each segment thought through till the end……and now Horatio had decided to throw in a variable….about the one thing, that could throw Ryan truely off balance!

He had caved in with the Russians, as soon as Dima Belkin had brought little Billy Gantry into the game…he knew, that he would cave in immediately, if he'd feel that Erica was in danger. H. had made the one fatal mistake; he had brought Ryan's weakness into the game.

He was very much aware of his weakness in this respect. The fact that he had not seen her for two years did not change anything! Erica was still his, would be until she decided otherwise. She had let him go, but she had not given back the engagement ring!

When she had thrown her fit over the restraining order, he had accepted his fate, picked up his stuff and brought the legaly required distance between the two of them to avoid her a Catch-22, but he had not given up on her. Ryan was too much old Europe to do so: He could not give up on her….they had too much of a history together…

Ryan prayed that Poniatowski or Delveaux or JP would send him the go. It was highly interesting that Ivan Sarnoff had a weak spot and he'd most certainly use this knowledge, but in order to do this he had to be back in Miami.

During the last twentyfour months Ryan had not touched another woman; he simply could not and from what they had pushed into his hands via an anonymous envelop in a sordid location he deduced, that Erica had not gone on with her life either.

Ryan sipped his coffee. He had a bad feeling about H. having involved Erica into this whole business. Erica was absolutely reckless and completely fearless when it came to her job as a journalist. After the Leo and Sienna shout out she'd even told him, that cable news was worth a flesh wound. She'd done so many a foolish thing and she would continue to do foolish things…

Ryan still remembered the day, when he had told her that he'd dump his PhD and do Boston Police Academy instead. Erica had thrown a fit. It had been one of their few serious fights. She had told him that she was not sure that she'd be able to cope with a cop…trembling in fear each time there was an 'Officer down' on the radio…never knowing, why her man would not answer his cell….She had finally accepted his choice and admitted that Ryan was born to be a cop, but she had also told him, that she did not like it! As if he enjoyed it seeing his woman taking risks!

He was born to be a cop, that was different. But he had also mainly walked patrol to pay for Erica's Master's Degree in Journalism: Erica had four younger sisters and good, decent parents, but they had simply not been able to afford another year at Boston or whatsoever university in the US and so he had rummaged through the Internet until he had found a sollution. At Miami International University the M.A. year in journalism cost 8000 Dollars less in study fees then anywhere else and Dade had been keen to give him a job right out of Police Academy.

He could have asked Clemence or Paddy for the money to see his chick through university and pay their bills but his stubborn pride had prevented him from doing so. Ryan never ever asked anybody for help! The day they had hooked up for serious, she had become his responsibility…It was his job to protect her…not her job to give him a hand in a prediacment!

For a while they had lived on 15 square meters in 'El Barrio' with a shower on the staircase …Erica doing her degree and him walking patrol on double shift, but somehow they had managed without their parents help and they had been happy…happy on spagehtti with tomato sauce six days a week, second hands clothes and cold showers through summer…happy on holidays in the Everglades and outings on Erica's student's pass with one place for two in the last rank of a theatre and cheap sparkling wine on the beach after their outings. His two years on patrol, while Erica finished her university curriculum had been perhaps the happiest days in his life….

After a while, they had managed to scrap the money for the decrepite place he'd found in Southern Miami while on extensive sick leave, after he'd got himself shot in the line of duty: The collar bone had been broken and one of the two 9 mm had just missed his brachial plexus. It had taken the doctors quite some time to find all bone fragments and put them back in their proper places. Ryan had restored the place between shifts with the help of his buddies from patrol. One of the reasons, why he had so much resented Officer Aaron Jessup's death had been the fact that he and Aaron had walked patrol together and that they had helped each other out when the weekly paycheck had been to small to cover everyday's fees…..

His and Erica's life had finally changed when his granny Clemence had suddenly died at age 96, leaving Ryan with a lavish trustee fund and 10 grands a months in addition to his weekly salary from the county. He had never told her her, but he had immediately bought them a new roof for the house, some creature comforts and an engagement ring for his woman….and he had even brought two scrawny kittens from Animal Control ………

In his second year as a CSI, Erica's first as a reporter for CBS TV4, he had taken the nail in his eye. It had been pretty funny: While Erica had really resented the two 9mm in his shoulder and fainted in the ER over a little bit of blood and some oxygen tubes attached to him, she had taken Charlene Hartford's nail with relatively good graces, simply reminding him of the fact that she'd prefer him alive and kicking to ….nailed….and that a nail gun was a pretty melodramatic weapon in a shoot out! Still, her china-blue eyes had been rimmed in red and she'd been shaking like a leave when she had given him this piece of her mind.

After Ryan had been out of hospital and with Al and Capone the two cats grown up and stripping they'd been talking marriage and children pretty seriously. They'd been even down to the point where Ryan had suggested to take the paternity leave since Erica earned much more as a journalist. Ryan had not minded. He was very fond of children and pretty good with them and the idea of pushing a buggy had not turned him off at all……they had been really happy together until H. had decided that he could not accept that one of his own would live together with a journalist and make plans for a common future……..

Ryan finished his breakfeast, stuffed Erica's superb investigation work back into the pocket of his jacket and left Paul's. He ran his hand over his full-fledged beard. Nature again had provided some additional cover. He was very much pissed off with his boss over in Miami. He'd been quite capable of pardoning Horatio many a thing, but to get Erica involved was….beyond the pale!

He gave the sky a cursory glance. After almost a week of boiling heat, a summer storm was rolling in. Dark clouds hung over Paris and the wind brought in swirling leaves and a hope of rain. Ryan pulled his second cell from the pocket of his leather jacket and wrote a small texto for Poniatowski, which he forwarded also to JP and de Kersausson. Serge had been hanging around discreetly at his own favourite hide outs for the last two nights. Tracking someone in a car was harder then it habitually appeared upon TV and Ryan had seen two new Russian faces in their sidelines. If you followed too closely you ran the risk of being spotted. That was exactly what had happened to the sucessors of Dick and Harry last night. He blessed the immaculate, bright red Renault 107….nobody on Rue Saint Denis or in the 9th arrondisment would ever drive a new, immaculate and red car! So it could only be his new Russian tail anyhow.

He gave Serge a rendezvous at the Irish Pub at 17h30, suggested that they'd offer a nice show with hide and seek in the Metro and meet for the final showdown right under the Pont Neuf in the heart of medieval Paris. If Serge had to go, he should go in style….nothing better then the higly touristic oldest standing bridge over the river Seine….they had no intention to be discreet….they needed public…preferably some tourists with cameras. And the place was convenient, because it was not too far away from 36 Quai des Orfèvres and the HQ of Delveaux's unit.

***

It wasn't much of a camp. Six buildings, one of them a huge and corrugated galvanised iron, a unused hello pad and a small road half-covered in sand, a firing range. Nothing else. But the loading facilities were impressive. They looked about as good as loading facilities for container ships in Le Havre or Cherbourg. Padraig counted 25 inmates, twenty of them were Russian or Eastern Europe, the others locals with hard unbidding faces. This was the Dakhla storage facility of the Ismaiylovskya Bratstvo, well separated from similar facilities in POLISARIO country that were used by other criminal organnisations. They had learned security during the days of the USSR. They kept up the standards!

On the blackboard in hut Nr.1 was a schedule that gave the pass-over times of reconnaissance satellites from respectable countries; US, France, Europe even Russia. So everyone knew when to be out of sight and the vehicles etc. were under cover. Two headlights appeared at the horizon. Paddy noted their appearance but said nothing. It were probably the people with whom he'd to deal. He allowed the hard-faced Russian driver to show him into hut Nr.3. A scrawny local youth, armed to his teeth closed the door but otherwise ignored them. His driver held out a hand. Paddy understood and gave the man Sean Miller's passport. The Russian left without a word and Paddy decided that he could relax for a while.

Hardly an hour passed before the door reopened again. A Western face, less brutish then his driver's and the kaki attire was cleaner and better cut. "Welcome to our business facilities, !" The Russian said in heavily accented English. Padraig acknowledged the greeting with a nod.

The man held out a bottle of vodka and two glasses: "The locals here have an attack on Allah and decide that civilised people cannot have a drink."

"And you decided to break God's law nonetheless!" Paddy replied in his heavily accented Russian.

The man smiled approvingly, put the two glasses on the table and served them vodka.

"Your friends have paid us, ! When do you want to see the goods?"

Padraig accepted the glass, motionned to the Russian and drowned it. He hated vodka. "What a bloody nuisance!" He thought, but he also understood that occasional sacrifices were necessary to ensure the smooth collaboration with comrades of what had former been known as the 'International Revolutionary Community'.

"Now!" He replied non-plussed, returning his glass and indicating that he'd enough for tonight. " You do not mind if I accompany our goods?"

The Russian shrougged his shoulders. ", your organisation paid us 2 million dollars. That should be enough for a small cabin and some food onboard our luxourious cargo 'Sherazade'. But we cannot take care of you once the merchandise is delivered in Miami and it is up to you to organise whatsoever with your comrades in the US."

Paddraig smiled. "You do not worry. We are well organised. When do you expect the "Sherazade" to leave?"

"As soon as our friends from PIRA have checked their merchandise and hopefully before the first US recce satelitte appears off Dakhla. This stop over is not on the ship's manifesto….you understand?"

Paddy understood perfectly well. He'd been playing this type of games for a long time and this was not his first business interaction with the Russians. They were well organised, competent and highly professional….and so was the PIRA…and today they had a huge advantage over the 'Bratstvo'…they were not in for real, just for the fun. But this, the Russians did not know and it would be a great pleasure to use that fact in the aftermate of the delivery to Miami and the seizure of their hardware: They would send someone to Oleg Ivanov and complain bitterly. Paddy followed his host over to the hangar.

It was easy to put the tiny trackers onto the French cargo: He did, as he was expected to do, taking some random MISTRALS, screening them closely and then putting them back into their crates. He also insisted to check two of the twelve ATLAS launch units at random. It was much easier to put trackers on lunch units. Placed close to the sight system they were literally invisible. Padraig had to admit that the stuff was worth its money….apart the fact, that they no longer needed MANPADs. The people in parliament and in Brussels and Starssburg at the EU were much more useful then physical violence and random bombings.

"That's ok!" He admitted and gave the Russian a satisfied not. He had also taken other crates. They looked very familiar and even without opening them he knew exactly what they contained. The markings of the Albanian Armed Forces were only badly made up. The 'Bratstvo' was saving on black paint! So instead of giving their stuff an exclusive shipping, Oleg Ivanov's collaborators in Paris and Miami were profiting from the cargo for some more business. Padraig estimated that about 5000 Kalashnikov assault rifles were stored in these crates. Together with the ammunition he saw standing close by, this would make a nice additional benefit. Well….if they could. Since MDPD and US Customs were already on stand by in order to give the very criminal cargo with the very poetic name 'Sherazade' a worthy reception, the loss of these assault rifles would add upon Ivan Sarnoff's failure with the MISTRALs and the French radars.

O'Briain left the hangar. The Russian who accompanied him might have interpreted the little smile on his face as satisfaction with the quality of the military hardware the PIRA had bought. In reality it was malice pure: This was probably the greatest blunder in the overall history of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo's criminal activities on the soil of the US

****

Frank Tripp gave Horatio Caine a huge grin. "Erica can go on the air with her first story."

"So the news from France are good?" Horatio pulled off his sunglasses and settled on a rock.

He felt drained. Stetler had called him in. The Russians had tried to set up Calleigh via her father Kenwall Dusquene. While he had been working the case 'Ivan Sarnoff', Calleigh had gone through a private hell…..he had not seen it. He had been so very much preoccupied with this sophisticated stratagem that he had once again neglected one of his own.

The crisis had been managed and he had spoken at length with Calleigh and tried to explain things without giving away what was soon going to happen. Basically it had been Rick's merit, that Kenwall Dusquene was completely vindicated…..Rick and Erica Sykes. Calleigh was not aware of the later 'benefactor' of her father and they had decided to keep the whole issue on very low heat.

Tripp saw, that Horatio was not at his best. He appeared bone weary, preoccupied and slightly anguished. But they were almost there. Just a few more days, a big clash, some gory prime time glory and the seizure of a huge cargo full of illegal weapons.

"The trackers have been activated. The French missiles seem to be already on board that ship and Regine told me, that – weather permitting – the 'Sherazade' will enter US territory in about two weeks time. We have also prepared the extradiction papers for Ryan. Powell did a great job…..the stuff is better then real."

Caine pulled his sunglasses from his breastpocket and started to play with them. "And the great show in Paris…..?"

"….is about to start, H.!Ryan had a first run in with the Russian mob three days ago….he almost killed his assailant….couple of hookers managed to drag him off before he could slice that rogue's throat. He seems to be quite on the edge of the knife….I hope the kiddo does not lose it." Tripp was honestly concerned with Ryan. He was perfectly aware of the fact that the young CSI had been through quite a lot in a very short time. The very idea of find himself soon in the spotlights, object for a vicious mud throwing campaign of the media and scorned by his peers was probably an additional stress factor.

"I hope he will not break." Horatio replied honestly. He had done a lot of undercover work and was perfectly aware of the gruesome strain this type of misson put on an officer. Furthermore, Ryan had not really been given a choice. It was basically Ivan Sarnoff…And his young CSI was probably not at his best right now…physically and psychologicaly, also Erwan de Kersausson had assured him that he did much better then expected.

"I do not think, Horatio, that Ryan will break!" Tripp had taken a seat on the rock next to Caine's. They had been discussing this issue with Regine and after he had told her everything he knew about the kid, she had drawn his psychological profile…kind of…

"I hope you are right, Frank." Caine flipped his cell phone open and tipped a short texto for Stetler. Also it was much easier to live with his 'Russian shadow' since they had been able to put a name and a face on the man thanks to the fieldwork of Commander Regine Marais' collaborators, he still did not like the idea of being followed. He knew that at this very moment, he and Frank had a teleobjective pointed on them and they had chosen the seaside, because the Russians were hard nosed enough to point even sophisticated microphones on their targets. The noise of the waves made it difficult to listen into a conversation.

Tripp had observed his longtime friend carefully. Regine was convinced that Ryan would not break. "So tomorrow at lunchtime we are all going to watch an Erica Sykes Special?"

Horatio pushed the send button and nodded. They would and he would make sure that not only the whole Crime Lab watched it.

*****

Jean Paul Moulin kept a keen eye on the Pont Neuf and on the riverwalk. Notre Dame, brightly illuminated sparckled like a precious gem. Tourists and ramblers were haunting the place, because it was summer and there was nothing better then a Paris sunset over the river Seine on a bright summer day. No serious and down to earth criminal woul ever have chosen this very place to off another criminal discretly….but 99,99% of all stage directors of thrillers or police television shows would: Poniatowski and Ryan had a 100% guarantee to have a most admiring public!

"You go soft on my guy!" He told the patrol chief. Even if they intended to make it look real, Jean Paul did not want his patrollers overexcited.

The man flipped a pack of Camels and offered one to the big head from the RAID. "You do not worry, boss! We is a set up. Nobody kills and nobody dies. We'll just hit your bloke over the head once or twice for the show…..hey, my folks never get prime time!"

Moulin accepted the Camel gratefully. It was gift of God that the uniformed folks did not take the administrative regulation of 1st January 2007 against smoking all to serious. In stressfull moments like this, he truly enjoyed his little lung cancer stick. He drew a deep breath and gave the patroller a most grateful smile. " You can hit my bloke over the head if you must…..but try and avoid his ribs etc. …they are already broken and he's not that fit!"

"Send him on sick leave, Boss!" The uniformed policeman joked. He had told his folks to be credible but easy. They had been called in for the show, because they used to work with Narcotics and had a certain experience with set ups.

Moulin lifted his hand. "Here we go!" He said cheerfully. He had no idea how Ryan and Poniatowski had worked their timing, but Ryan had managed to appear just in front of a tourist-packed 'bateau-mouche' with Serge literally on his heels. His childhood friend from Morgat had somehow managed to avoid a young mum with a buggy and a black labrador, but he rolled over a fit looking young jogger who immediately came back to his feet and called him very ugly names. Hopefully the guy would continue with his workout and not try and mess up a police operation.

"That's real good!" The uniformed cop smiled and pointed his finger at Poniatowski. Serge had flung himself vigurously over Ryan and shouted something incomprehensible in Russian.

"That would be great in a film, Boss! These guys know what they do!"

Moulin was not so sure, when he saw the tourists and ramblers step back to give the two brawlers some space for their action. Some bystanders already pulled mobile phones from their pockets.

"Ryan, " He squealed, throwing the rest of his cigarette out of the window and pushing the door of the police car open, "….you are not supposed to kill Serge!"

A very,very nasty right punch to Poniatowski's jaw made some blood drops fly. Even at a distance it was clear that Poniatowski had lost….a tooth.

"Your blokes are real good!" The patroler grined. "We run down to the riverwalk as soon as the younger one in the leather jacket throws the other guy into the Seine?"

Moulin found the whole scene not all that funny. He wanted Serge and Ryan in one piece. Serge had a fiancée who was waiting for her man at La Rochelle and would give him hell if instead of spending a well merited holiday with her, the officer would spend time in the hospital. And Ryan….JP did not know for his fiancée, since the girl was over in the US and they had kind of a break up 24 months ago…but he had to get him back to Miami in one piece.

Ryan somehow managed to struggle down Poniatowski, who seemed to be not realy enchanted with his opponents right arm slung around his neck and a knee on his spine. Suddenly everything became horror. Several of the bystanders, who'd observed the catfight cried out.

"Go, go, go!" Moulin shouted. He saw that Delveaux's plainclothes police officers were already sprinting down the staircase that led up to Notre Dame. Poniatowski literally flew into the dirty waters of the Seine and Ryan slumped to his knees…exhausted.

Delveaux was quicker then Moulin. Before Jean Paul could reach his childhood friend, the CSI was already spreadeagled on the eighthundred years old cobblestone of the Pont Neuf river walk, his arms behind his back, panting and breathing heavily. Moulin let Delveaux handle Wolfe. Now it was important to catch the body. He threw of his jacket and jumped into the river Seine. Poniatowski was drifting off.

Jean Paul was not for nothing the boss of the toughest unit of the French police forces. He reached his 'body' with forcefull strokes, caught Serge under the arms, turned him over and started to make his way back to the riverwalk. A splendid crowd was gawking and goggling at them. Many had their mobile phones drawn.

"You own me a tooth!" Poniatowski sizzled.

"You shut up!" Moulin replied, heaving with the effort to drag an uncoopertive hulk about his size back to the shore.

"Ryan's not terribly cooperative!" Poniatowski whispered between clenched teeth. He was officailly dead, so speaking was not an option.

"He's not supposed to be!" Moulin replied matter-of-factly


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 34 Predators**

Jacov Wolinski aka Jason Weller relaxed in the television room, watching the 13 Hours News of CBS TV Four and waiting for his favourite daytime soap 'The Bold and the Beautiful' to start.

Free access to the telly was one of the privileges well-behaved prisoners could obtain in BunkerHill and Jason with his 18 months sentence for 'Grievous bodily harm resulting in death but without the intention to kill' was not only considered well-behaved, but also inoffensive.

He smiled and opened a can of Coke, bought at the Prison Commissary with the pocket money his employer –The Aegean Fighting Club – deposed regularly on his account. Together with the excellent attorney Ivan's enterprise had paid for him, the comfortable weekly allocation of money, regular book and magazine parcels through Barnes & Nobles and Saturday afternoon goodies from 'Babushka' Danilenko made his sejourn in BunkerHill rather acceptable.

"Today, Miami has emerged as the key centre of Russian organised crime in the Caribbean region. MDPD counts a dozen or so gangs operating here. South Florida is the place to meet with Colombian drug cartels and to organise the purchase of banks, firms and properties throughout the region. Sources within the Miami Dade Law Enforcement confirmed that a meeting in 1993 between four top Russian crime syndicates divided up the spoils of the area. One of those in attendance was Oleg Ivanov. He was arrested in Switzerland in 1996 but was released in December of the same year, acquitted of charges of belonging to a criminal organisation and falsifying documents. Ivanov successfully denied the accusation and insisted that he was a legitimate businessman and his case collapsed because of lack of evidence. The Swiss prosecution alleged that Ivanov was the head of the Ismaiylovskaya criminal organisation, one of the largest and most notorious Russian mafia groups founded in Moscow. Today we know that Swiss Law Enforcers were right and that Oleg Ivanov is indeed the 'vozhd' of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo. The gang is linked to money-laundering, illegal gambling, smuggling, racketeering and arms traffic. MDPD officials, who refuse to be named, confirmed that Ivanov successfully build up a solid empire in the Sunshine State and installed one of his key lieutenants at the head of this empire. CBS TV4 pushed its own investigation and found out, that a Russian, naturalised in 1995 and who is actually serving a prison term of 13 months on _felony gambling charges_ of horse race fixing might be Oleg Ivanov's Miami Commander. Unfortunately law enforcement authorities so far were unable to prove this man's belonging to the infamous Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo and MDPD is complaining that they had insufficient resources to conduct the case."

The running commentary stopped and Erica Sykes, reappeared on the television screen.

Jacov Wolinski liked the chick. She was damn hot and his favourite lunch time anchor. Today she wore a light grey linen jacket with matching trousers and a tight burgundy silk top…..and no bra underneath.

Jacov thought that she had nice tits and a very sexy bum in those well cut trousers. Female company and regular sex were the two things he missed most in his confinement. But he preferred nonetheless his fantasies over the CBS TV4 chick and her dark haired Latino colleague on WSVN 7News, who did the weather forecasts and had the longest legs, he'd ever seen over the more down to earth approach of many of his co-detainees to this problem. It was simply not an option for a soldier of the 'Bratstvo' to acquire for money or obtain by force the services of another male; next to discussing organisational issues of the 'Bratstvo' with a representative of law enforcement over tea or completely messing up a mission, relieving one's basic physical needs with another man – consenting or not – was about the easiest way to get oneself executed by Ivan Sarnoff in person.

Wolinski sipped his cool Coke and moved his left hand over his bald head. Hell, she was hot today. With her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, that underlined the concerned expression on her face and the seriousness of the subject, the TV4 anchor looked most inviting. He listened with one ear to her explanations and imagined, what it would be to tear of these clothes and ravage her right against a wall.

"The Russian Mafia is bar none, the most powerful, organized crime syndicate in existence today in Florida." Sykes continued. Her voice gave him shivers. It was grave. He liked this type of voice in females! She'd look great if, she'd let her hair down. He loved long silky hair and here was a natural blonde, not a chick that plunged her head regularly in a paint pot….

Ivan Sarnoff, another prisoner with TV privileges seemed less enchanted with the good looks of the CBS Lunchtime anchor and much more interested in the things the young woman had to say.

In the background a series of archive images showed bloody run ins with police forces, men with 'Bratstvo' tattoos slammed against walls and handcuffed and some shoot out scenes that looked as if they'd been taken straight from a Bruce Willis movie.

"The majority of these people are extremely well trained, some by Russian special forces and intelligence, most by the Army and educated. Especially the members of the Mogilevich and Ismaiylovskya clans have above average education and frequently even university degrees.. Central American, Haitian and Cuban organized crime is really amateur hour criminal enterprise compared to the Russian 'Bratstvos' in Miami!" Sykes concluded and while Sarnoff did not approve of that news chick putting her noose in business that was none of hers, he had to agree concerning the appreciation of their professionalism and above average level of education. He did not recruit, if a man had not at least a graduation diploma, preferably a vocational technically or economy oriented baccalaureate. For unqualified labour such as brutal and brainless killings, day-to-day racket or traditional intimidation he preferred to employ the ravaging beasts of the M-13, who had been born and bred in the civil wars in El Salvador and Guatemala.

.  
Ending her Special on Russian Crime in Florida and promising the spectators a second part of 25 minutes for the next day and which would cover the money laundering operations of the Russian mob through casinos, on horse and greyhound tracks and via other gambling opportunities, Sykes disappeared behind the first images of the news flashes.

Ivan smiled, when he saw the face of a Latino Miami-born Florida congressman appear next to the happy faces of a delegation of Spanish and Portuguese MPs. They had joined him apparently in some social event and they inaugurated a Museum of archaeological relics from remainders of 16th century Conquistador ships. They had been found off shores Miami by underwater archaeologists two years ago. The news comment explained that both Portugal and Spain had agreed to support the scientific work on the treasures and were sending out some crack scientists on an exchange program.

Ivan made a mental note to visit the Museum, as soon as he was out of this rat hole….preferably with Ramona and the boys. He loved archaeology and owned a small, but valuable collection of prehistoric mammoth ivory carvings from his Siberian home land.

The Special on the 'Bratstvo' interest in Florida as a base for operations in the Carribeans had been very honest journalists work but nothing extraordinary had been revealed. The Sykes woman was good. On a strictly professional level, he was tempted to send her an e-mail, congratulating her on a job well done. But she'd have to do better, if her intention was to really upset his organisation and stir up the hornet's nest. Well, Mrs. Sykes was still young and had potential….in a few years time perhaps, he'd be obliged to send her a straight forward message…..perhaps Jacov Wolinski, who seemed to fancy the pretty, little news chick!

The Congressman and his parliamentarian friends from Europe were replaced by a battered and badly bruised face. Ivan literally jumped, when he recognised the man and immediately forgot about Sykes and the Special.

Jacov Wolinski suddenly sat straight like a ramrod in his chair, his half empty can of Coke had slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground, leaving a dark red pool.

"……American citizen Timothy Belkin was killed yesterday evening on the banks of the river Seine in Paris, close to Notre Dame and the tourist highlights of the French capital in front of a shocked and frightened group of innocent bystanders. French officials underlined, that his killer was in a state of justified self-defence, having been violently assaulted by Belkin…." A rather bad photograph of a man, Ivan recognised immediately, notwithstanding his hazel brown beard appeared in a small window on the right upper part of the TV screen.

"Tshort pobery!" – "Hell!" The boss of the Miami branch of the Ismaiylovskaiya cursed under his breath, while the news anchor continued her explanations. Instead of getting himself killed by Timofeij, Ryan Wolfe had not only managed to exterminate his hunter in a rather violent manner. He had also managed to get both of them right onto the news!

**

The cup of coffee slipped from Delko's hand and fell to the floor, leaving a pattern of brownish stains on his cream coloured linen trousers. Maxine Valera who took her lunch break together with Travers in the Cafeteria next to Erica clapped her hand over her mouth and shock her head in denial.

"That's impossible!" Travers moaned. "That's Ryan!"

Suddenly the bearded and tired looking face disappeared and Rick Stetler – uncommonly determined and with a hard look on his face, appeared in front of the cameras.

He literally barked at the journalist who had dared asked him to comment and explain.

No, they had not sent their officer abroad to apprehend a criminal. He was absent without authorized leave and under a false pretence! Yes, Tim Belkin was indeed the younger brother of the criminal Dimitrij Belkin who'd been shot almost two weeks ago during a police action that included a homicide, the kidnapping of a child and illegal gambling! No, he would not comment on this case! Yes, the man, Dimitrij Belkin was indeed a member of the Miami Russian mob! Yes, he had been involved in other criminal activity! No, they would not comment on the ongoing IAB investigation on Officer Wolfe! No, he would not comment on Wolfe's involvement in the rather weird death of another Russian mobster in relation with horse race fixing and illegal betting! Yes they had already filled a request for extradition from France! No, the French did not considered Wolfe's killing of Tim Belkin homicide or manslaughter, but a justified act of self defence and were only holding charges for the illegal possession of a firearm and assuming a false identity against the CSI!

Horatio Caine stood right behind Stetler. Sunglasses firmly clasped in his left, the right stemmed into his hip and ashen faced, the boss of the Crime Lab Day Shift looked bone weary, like a man after a troublesome and sleepless night. The cameras shifted from the apparently angry Stetler to a slender, well dressed woman with cold eyes and a hard look on her face. CBS gave her name as Commander Regine Marais, Legal Attachée at the French Consulate General at Miami.

Delko felt immediately a surge of negative emotions rise. This Marais woman was tough as nails when she explained in excellent English with only the slightest French accent that she had accepted the request for extradition, but that she would not comment!

The issue of the extradition of a foreign national was a question to be handled by the highest authorities of her country. The French charges against were not important, while the charges that Florida desired to press against him were considerable. Furthermore, the IAB officer had just mentionned the fact that they had an investigation against their officer ongoing and which concerned the death of a man. She would need more information in this respect, including – bien sure – proof. Everything could come down to a question of Human Rights …….

Occasionally the Marais woman shot Stetler and Horatio hateful glance and rambled on concerning the legal practice in Florida, the death penalty and excessive sentences for relatively minor charges.

Delko shook his head, brushed the coffee stains with a handkerchief from his trousers and left. Who did this arrogant legal attaché think she was, to try and lecture them on their own legal system on their very own soil? If she did not like it, she could pick up her luggage and play diplomat somewhere else! The low voice chit chat between Valera and Travers, who both doubted that Wolfe was capable of doing something so awful and who expressed both the opinion that something must have gone terrible wrong for their colleague and that perhaps everything would turn out a giant error in the end was unbearable.

Delko knew instantly that Travers and Valera were barking up the wrong tree. But he did not expect anything else from two lab rats who never went out into the field and who always had been extraordinarily chummy with that little sneak Wolfe.

Already years ago, Calleigh had told him under a cloak of secrecy that Wolfe had played the notorious Death Pool 100 and that he had participated in off shore gambling, even paying her once with a fake 'super note'…and all that long before Stetler even thought about firing the rat from their Lab,

Immediately after Calleigh's revelation, Eric had started to have a funny about Wolfe, too and the little bit of trust and good will that had existed for Speedle's unworthy replacement had literally evaporated within the minute.

The news humbug around Natalia BoaVista's sister Anya caused by Wolfe's pet journalist Erica Sykes had added to Eric's resentment and the straw that had finally broken the donkey's back had been his re-integration as a CSI thanks to Horatio's good graces.

Eric had always known that something was terribly wrong with Wolfe and that he was dangerous for the Lab. And here they had it. Right in front of their eyes. He admitted that it would not surprise him, the IAB investigation turned out that Wolfe was entangled with the Russian mob in one way or another.

Already the fact that all of a sudden Wolfe had swapped –so to say overnight – his lousy student's disguise of mismatched sweaters and badly cut jackets for very expensive European designer stuff, some of it apparently made to measure, had been suspicious. Eric had a certain idea about the price of high end male fashion and also a certain idea concerning Wolfe's exact monthly income from legal work as a CSI….and it simply did not fit! Then came the whole affair around that cocaine addict track vet Marc Gantry. This too had been highly suspicious, even more so, since Horatio had kept all details on a very low flame and never ever told him or Calleigh what really had happened.

When Wolfe's had finally completely sabotaged his interrogation of Jim Colton in the Ian Warner homicide hardly two weeks ago, by mentioning Colton's job at a sporting good store as a possible explanation for how his DNA had got on the parachute, it should have become crystal clear…..Wolfe had even pressed on, when Eric became angry with him, suggesting they had nothing substantial on Colton and needed to release the man. And the little sneak had won….Eric was willing to wager six months of pay that Wolfewas in league with the Russians and Sarnoff, probably had been for a long time… which would also explain, why it had been impossible to reach him on his cell that night, after he'd pretended to go after Cameron West the paparazzi who worked for Sarnoff's. He had probably gone for West…..to tell him to keep a low profil for a while and stay of radars, because Horatio was after him.

And then….the next day Wolfe had immediately started to mess up a case involving his Russian buddies; making evidence disappear, helping the murderer to get off, setting up an innocent man etc….

Delko went in search of Calleigh Dusquene. He wanted to talk with her immediately. They had things to discuss. He did not like Rick Stetler and had no tender feelings for the IAB, but it was perhaps an excellent idea to inform him concerning all these strange events from two weeks earlier. Horatio had been excessively tight lipped about his shooting of this Dimitrij Belkin, the story with the child of that track vet Gantry, Wolfe's overall involvement in the whole mess and….Wolfe's mysterious absence for "health reasons" starting literally the day after a curious accumulation of coincidences!

***

ASA Derek Powell gave Sergeant Frank Tripp a nod. They were watching the CBS news cast on Ryan and Belkin in Paris together with a third man.

Horatio had brought ATF Special Agent Evan Caldwell discreetly into the whole business. Caldwell was completely trustworthy and would be a great asset with the seizure of the cargo 'Sherazade', especially since the French had managed to get their agent on board and wanted him back with the utmost discretion. The guy naturally had a false ID including visas from rock states, that would make Homeland Security go immediately over the edge!

The ship had left Dakhla two days earlier and Paris had communicated the entire unofficial shipping list. They wanted only their stuff marked with their trackers back unopened together with their agent 'unquestioned' and gracefully offered ATF the rest of the bounty of the 'Sherazade'.

Caldwell had gone all dewy, when he'd been allowed to read the telex: 5000 Albanian-made, brand new Kalashnikov assault rifles including ammunition and ….surprise, surprise….900 Czech Scorpion automatic pistols in calibre 32 ACP.

The French 'agent' had even been able to sleuth out for this special container part-load was….. "La Mara Salvatrucha", more commonly known as the MS-13 and which was considered by the FBI to be one of most dangerous gangs operating in the US.

This information was invaluable, because it confirmed what Caldwell and his colleagues suspected already for a while…only they had had nothing to prove it: The Russians were providing the M-13 with large quantities of assault rifles and automatic pistols and in exchange, the M-13 would do certain dirty jobs for the 'Bratstvo'.

He had once helped to pull through a dangerous set up together with Ryan Wolfe, when they had staged Caine's death to confound Ron Saris and Juan Ortega. It had been a successful operation and they had put a definitive stop to the trafficking of highly dangerous fused alloy bullets to gangs in Florida. H. had come to him with this French bounty not only because he trusted him, but also to pay him back for his invaluable help with Ron Saris, even if rumor wanted it, that the creep was still alive and had not blown himself to pieces on his yacht.

"That's clever!" Caldwell was impressed with the smooth cooperation between IAB, Caine and the French. For the viewing public it looked, as if there was a serious conflict situation over Wolfe's extradition, buying them time to wait for the cargo, seize it and create a Catch-22 situation for Ivan Sarnoff. "If these three ever get tired of their jobs, they could always do a successful sitcom together."

"We are playing an extremely dangerous game, Evan!" Frank Tripp replied thoughtful. At this very moment, the clock had started to tick for Ryan: He still had a temporary reprieve of about two weeks, but then he would go straight into the Lion's Den.

He would be obliged to run the gauntlet with the entire MDPD scandalised and angry. Several of Ryan's colleagues would not hesitate to throw mud and publicly berate him. And courtesy Erica Sykes, the media would have a field day with the young CSI……

Caldwell put his hand on Tripp's shoulder. "He'll do fine, Frank! Wolfe's cold-blooded and keeps his emotions in check…I've seen him in action, when I 'killed' H. Kept his poker face all along, even when Delko and Dusquene gave him hell…..and there is nothing more difficult then to lie to your closest colleagues in a credible manner!"

Frank Tripp doubted that Calleigh or Eric were Ryan's "closest colleagues", but he saw no need to say so to Caldwell. He too wanted to believe that Ryan would pull it off and come back to them in one piece and unharmed!

But still…Tripp had rarely seen three people who worked constantly together being so remote and untrusting among themselves as were Calleigh, Eric and Ryan. Between Calleigh and Ryan it was something like indifference on Calleigh's side and a feeling of isolation on Ryan's. Between him and Delko….well, even if you were as blind as a mole, it was difficult to miss out Eric's contempt for Ryan and Ryan's aloofness with Delko that would turn into dark and rather aggressive sarcasm, when Eric became excessively tough or snide.

If you felt nothing beyond an average level of professional respect for someone, it was habitually excessively easy to beguile or ensnare such a person and tell her or him straight faced the most hilarious lies! Frank was not surprised that Ryan had managed to beguile Eric and Calleigh so easily, when H. had set up his own demise. He was also not surprised that chosen Ryan over Delko as his partner-in-crime…but that was another chapter and rather sad!

Powell gave a little sigh. "It's not so much keeping a stiff upper lip in public, Caldwell. I am sure, Wolfe'll manage unflinching. I am more preoccupied about inside BunkerHill….Horatio cannot negotiate with inmates, as he's done before, when his son Kyle was send to the facility. None of them is trustworthy and whatever privileges we promise….even if we offer to commute one sentence or another in exchange for insider backup for Wolfe, should there be trouble….it's impossible. This is so hot that we cannot trust any inmate."

"The guards?" Caldwell accepted Powell's argument. He knew exactly how dangerous it was when a police officer went undercover into a prison. But this case was worse: They'd send Wolfe in claiming vociferously that he was a police officer…..a police officer turned rogue!

Powell shrugged his shoulders. "Not an option either! Not all of them are angels and some of them should not guard the inmates but share cells with them. Who do you think provides cell phones and other strictly forbidden communication tools to the inmates? But it is most of the time very hard to prove and so the rotten apples stay on….I doubt that by now Ivan Sarnoff has not found an ally with the guards. Money can buy everything inside prison walls!"


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 35 The Calm before the Storm

*

Claire admired Jean-Paul Moulin; the young police officer was one clever little bastard! And he knew her so well!

When he had brought back home Ryan, after they had run their fancy show under the Pont Neuf, he had also brought Mari and Gwen, his two teenage daughters. Summer vacation just started, the children were free to do as they liked. JP had been perfectly aware of the fact, that Claire would not start a shouting match over Padraig, if Mari and Gwen were present! Furthermore….Ryan loved the girls and having them around would take his mind off more serious things.

Erwan de Kersausson, who in the meantime had returned from his trip to Miami, remained conspicuously silent. Habitually Erwan called her at least twice a week, no matter if they were on a case or not! It was not as if Claire was scared stiff: Paddy was perfectly capable to take care of himself on a cargo full of weapons and with a crew on the payroll of the Russian mob

Claire was always happy to have the girls, and she was happy that she had Ryan back in one piece. Surprisingly he looked much better, then she had expected. And while his run in with a hit man of Alexandr Rossinski and the very realistic chase and fight with Poniatowski had left him drained, he was in excellent spirits and rather feisty. His body was mending.

"Thanks, you are a sweet heart!" Claire abandoned her kitchen to Mari, the quieter and more sensible of JP's twins. The girl had offered to take care of the lunch and suggested to Claire to go outside and relax in the sun.

She settled down on her favourite sun bed and observed Mari's sister Gwen, her step son and JP. They were laughing. Gwen stood on her father's broad shoulders and tried to fetch a basket full of raspberries, Ryan was tending to her from an equally unstable position on top the stone wall around the ancient vegetable garden. A lot of the pressure was gone and the fact, that it was only reprieve and not closure had not yet kicked in with Ryan. For the moment fake-Belkin had been successfully "killed" in front of a huge public that had not hesitated to film the 'slaughter' with cell phones and post everything immediately on "You Tube" or "DailyMotion", and her step-son seemed not incline to think of the next step or talk about it. He preferred to ignore the future's bleak reality and simply enjoy life

It was to be expected that even Oleg Ivanov would be made aware of the dead loss of his Miami Captain, Sarnoff.

Ryan was supposed to wait and keep out of sight, until the 'Sherazade' –hopefully together with her hare brained soon-to-be husband Paddy on board- would reach Miami and be seized by US Customs, the ATF and MDPD.

Then Commander Regine Marais, France's legal attaché in the sunshine state, would make her official declaration, that they had studied CSI Wolfe's case and would be willing to send home back home in handcuffs, considering the allegations of the IAB and the State Attorney against the man.

Jean Paul had told her, that he'd 'accompany' the 'rogue cop' personally and hand him over to his US colleagues. In the end it would not make any difference, if a stern-faced anonymous copper or his best friend would hand Ryan over to the guys in Miami –the problem for a police officer who had to go undercover into a detention facility was always survival-but from a psychological point of view, JP's gesture was good. It was emotional reassurance!

Tante Claire! La sauce est faite… Je fais le spaghetti ou le fettuccini? ' Mari called out from the kitchen. Chiefly raised by a single father with a demanding and dangerous profession, JP's twins were wise beyond their age and very autonomous. Since the girls were in their teens, it had become a point of honour, to take care of their father and neither needed any surveillance or help in a kitchen.

"Your choice! I think the guys do not care, as long as they can gulp it down….don't bother with the cider, your rascal of a father or Ry can take care of this." The homemade cider was rather explosive and Claire preferred to keep Mari out of harms way…..a black eye from a high flying and violent cork would look ridiculous on a pretty 14 years old fairy, but did not matter with either of the two grown up rogues.

Ryan had questioned her under four eyes about the curious e-mail she had received from Erica Sykes. It had been a strange little conversation. Basically all she had done was to tell Clemence's brother Ron that he could give her professional e-mail address to Ryan's ex-fiancée. Then she had followed Erica's instructions in impeccable French, printed out a huge pdf. , stashed it unread into an envelop and handed it over to a guy from Delveaux's unit.

Claire had had the impression that the e-mail was just a pretext. For the first time in the 2 years since their mysterious separation, her step-son had been willing to touch upon the subject of Erica and his love life…or rather the complete lack of it.

After they had stuffed Mari and Gwen into their habitual beds in the room next to Ryan's and thrown a blanky over an exhausted and slightly tipsy JP, who had decided that the hammock in the garden would make a good resting place for the night, they had stayed together in the kitchen, Ryan cleaning up the dishes from diner and she sipping a glass of wine.

He had told her that from his point of view they had not broken up….rather extraneous circumstances had forced him to put some distance between him and Erica. He'd asked her, if she'd consider it crazy after two years without having seen each other and without having exchanged a single word – once again due to extraneous circumstances – to consider a relationship still in existence. Erica had never given back the engagement ring!

When Claire had poked him mischievously and enquired, if it would not have been rather been his cats that Erica should have given back, Ryan had made the ultimate blunder and suddenly many things had become very clear.

"A restraining order does not prevent you from sending stuff by mail, Claire! That would have been rather ridiculous to try and post Al and Capone."

So this had been the dark secret behind the unexpected break up! A restraining order! The most efficient and the most cruel way to keep two people apart…..

After a second glass of wine, this one shared with Ryan who had considered the kitchen finally up to standards, Claire decided that she liked Lieutenant Horatio Caine even less then before…and the judge who had been willing to play along with him was an outright scoundrel. They had framed the girl and Ryan had done the chivalrous thing and beaten the retreat to avoid Erica a Catch-22 situation that would have been in time a slow-killing poison for their relationship.

She had suggested that he should send the girl an e-mail, telling her that he was worried about her being involved in all this and taking risks.

Ryan had just shaken his head and rejected the proposal. There were things that could not be done by e-mail or in writing.

"What do you want, Ryan?" She had finally asked him rather brutally.

And he had told her and the simple and very basic answer had almost broken her heart. She had never ever before seen such an amount of misery and pain in his eyes.

When Claire had told Ryan, what Erica had written under her e-mail as an addendum, his look of misery and pain had changed within the second. He had smiled at Claire like a little boy under a Christmas tree….

**

When Ivan Sarnoff had called Vladimir Nevzorov from inside BunkerHill, the owner of 'The Forge' had been watching exactly the same lunchtime news and was recovering from exactly the same shock…the stag had managed to kill the hunter!

Aliosha Danilenko was not very happy either.

Ryan Wolfe had completely disorganised the perfect organisation of his beautiful master plan!

Danilenko had never developed a Plan B, that included the option that the hunted deer would eliminate the hunter! All the work and efforts he had invested were now in vain. It was impossible to send out the ghost of a man to kill his CSI colleagues, when said man was very much alive and kicking and in police custody on the other side of the Atlantic.

And from what he had learned via Ramona….Lieutenant Horatio Caine was behaving very suspiciously.

Basically it came down to the fact that the boss of the CSI Day Shift did not behave at all! Ramona had not seen him at home ever since the day when she had caught him at lunch with that CBS news anchor Erica Sykes…..Sykes, who was now making trouble, having entered the game as a rogue player with her 3-parts Special on the Russian Mob in Miami!

Caine's non-behaviour smelled very fishy….as if he was planning something and this something could be directed against the 'Bratstvo'. The ins and outs with the MDPD Chief, the visits to the IRS, even the sudden enquiry on Wolfe……it was clear that the young CSI had not told everything to his boss and that his interferences with the investigation into the homicide of that ungrateful exchange broker Ian Warner was making high waves.

Nevzorov gave a deep sigh. 'I do not understand Ivan!" He said to Danilenko, who looked deeply upset and humiliated as if the fact that Wolfe had been tougher then expected and fought back was his personal fault. "Why can we not simply call upon our dear "friends" from the M-13 and simply butcher one or two of Caine's collaborators in bright daylight to make our point. The Mala does not care whom they kill…they are violent, they are vicious and they are not afraid of cops."

He had liked Danilenko's sophisticate approach on vengeance, but he was too much down to earth to insist, if a plan did not work out.

"I do not like these ravaging beasts, Valodija. One day or another we will regret that we cooperate with them and give them arms. The Bratstvo is here to make money, not to drown Miami in a sea of blood and gore. We live here…we want it safe and cosy and…profitable! That does not mean that I am against a hard line with Caine and his bunch. I only want us to be in control of the whole thing. If we let loose the M-13 there is no way to stop them, should need arise."

Danilenko was very much preoccupied with the reputations of the various legal and semi-legal businesses of the 'Bratstvo'. It was already bad enough that Ivan was behind bars and while the charge was only _felony gambling charges_ of horse race fixing it was still embarrassing….like the stunt with Nathan Madden and the boat slip.

Ivan beating the living daylights out of that Madden guy and dumping his remainders in a dustbin had cost the Bratstvo the coquettish sum of 750.000 US in legal fees for the Boss and Jakov Wolinski. Alijosha had not even counted the bribes and the overhead. The gross financial loss was even more difficult to estimate: After Caine had sneaked up on them over Nathan Madden's dead body, they had been obliged to seriously back up on real estate scam.

'Give me a fortnight, Valodija!" He said to Nevzorov." I need to think this whole issue through, reconsider the plans, contact couple of sources, buy perhaps some nasty info from Leo Rossi…. Anyhow, there is no urgency and neither Caine nor the rest of his team will suddenly vanish into thin air. Perhaps we can exploit that investigation against Wolfe, put some red herrings into the path of the IAB…..even suggest, that he worked for us and is a rogue!"

Nevzorov nodded his agreement. "I trust you, Alijosha. I will speak to Ivan and make him see reason. First and foremost it is important to successfully conclude Jarovsky's deal with the PIRA and hand over their missiles. The PIRA agent from Boston has told Jarovsky that they may be interested in couple of other things and that they'd be also willing to sell us at an advantageous prize a lavish stock of explosives and assault rifles….and he was willing to give us a good contact with the French branch of the ETA….serious potential client for MANPADs too! Considering the fact, that the 'Sherazade' is full with weapons, I do not want any disturbances until the ship is in and properly unloaded. That should give you time enough!"

Danilenko took his briefcase. "Valodija, I have to go. I have an important rendezvous that is probably worth several million bucks….." He had not expected such enthusiasm, when he had promoted Dan Cooper for the sake of some nasty rumour from the CSI Lab, but the guy had obviously taken the entire defence project chit chat to heart and had come up with a highly sophisticate and innovative approach to voice reconnaissance. He'd need to hurry up. He and Cooper had an appointment with the Federal Patent Examiner in D.C followed by a meeting with a representative of the DoD in Alexandria, who seemed highly intrigued by their concept. They needed to catch their airplane without delay. "I'll be back on Friday!" He said and left Nevzorov's lavish office on the second floor of 'The Forge'.

***

The French surveillance team on Avenue Foch –tonight with their very fashionable burgundy red Renault Traffic surveillance van that sprouted the publicity of a famous clothes designer, who had his main fashion boutique right across Alexandr Rossinski's offices – listened gleefully in to a rather heated discussion between Alexandr and a male voice, that belonged apparently to the 'Vozhd' of the Ismaiylovskaya in Moscow; Oleg Ivanov!

Ivanov was not amused by the rather curious publicity his organisation had recently received on YouTube and DailyMotion and he seemed rather embarrassed with the fact, that some 'bloddy news chick' in Miami had mentioned his name in the same line with felony, money laundering, organised crime and the Caribbean.

The 'vozhd' was so upset, that he hardly took the time to listen to Rossinski's explanations concerning the successful shipping of lavish and very illegal military hardware from Rotterdam via Marseilles and Dakhla to Miami. And then, all of a sudden, all faces in the surveillance car turned from gleeful to awed.

'I could not care less, if Ivan Sergueivitsch puts green lights on the entire Florida State Police! Ivan can kill whoever he likes if this makes him happy…..he can even have his own personal medieval torture chamber……but I do not want his little personal vendetta interfere with our overall business!" The voice from Moscow barked at Rossinski.

Also the little camera that Serge Poniatowski had skilfully placed in the office did not transmit high quality imagery, the whole team saw Rossinski turn ashen faced, when the 'vozhd' explained to him that he was not at all amused by the blunder under the Pont Neuf and the sending out of what seemed to be amateurs in the business of killing.

They taped literally a full confession of Rossinski's including that he had given orders to kill a commissioned police officer, send out hit men to do so and had supported actively another hit man –this time mandated by a mafia colleagues overseas – in attempted murder. This, the irrefutable proofs concerning the arms traffic and corruption of officials and the fact, that the conversation between him and Oleg Ivanov was cast-iron proof of Rossinski not only belonging to the Russian Mafia, but being a high ranking key player, would send the man of for _life imprisonment_ without possibility of parole, France's harshest criminal punishment.

The surveillance team was jubilant; as soon as the 'Sherazade' with the arms had reached Miami, the Organised Crime Unit, supported by the RAID and the GIGN would crash down most violently on the entire organisation of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo in the Greater Paris region. Hopefully some of the mobsters would sing like little nightingales to lessen their sentences. Should this be the case, they would perhaps even be able to crash down on Bratstvo dependencies in other French towns.

*****

Calleigh had listened attentively to Eric. She, too had been tremendously shocked by the revelations about Ryan Wolfe and the insinuation that he may have an ignominious nexus with the Russian mob of Miami.

She had not seen the Erica Sykes News Special on the mafia and the flash on Wolfe having been apprehended out of bounds in France after having killed a member of Sarnoff's organisation, but everybody in the Lab talked about the scoop and so she was pretty much aware of what had happened.

'You know, " she told Eric, taking his hand in hers and caressing it gently, "He may have come into contact with them, when he gambled. This type of vice makes weak people excessively vulnerable to blackmail. And I can imagine, that Sarnoff literally jumped on the occasion to subdue a CSI." She remembered all to well her own experience, when she had been kidnapped by two rogues and forced to cover up the traces of a homicide the guys were convinced they had committed in the heat of an illegal poker game.

"I think, we should tell Stetler!" Eric replied. His voice was uncommonly harsh and determined. Calleigh could feel that he resented Wolfe with every fibre of his body.

"I am not so sure that this will be a good move, Eric!" She replied thoughtfully. It had been only four days ago that she had left Stetler's office in a state of utmost relieve, after Rick had explained to her in detail what had happened to her father and who was behind it.

Stetler had even taken upon himself to arrange Duke's whole thing with the Public Defenders Office and he had spoken to the judge concerning her father's driver's licence, the car and the very stiff fine. In the end, it had taken less then 48 hours to restitute everything. It was so easy to get into harms way if somebody determined and vicious wanted you to suffer.

Calleigh could not help but remember Wolfe's ashen face, the split lip, the slightly irrational behaviour and his jumpiness throughout the whole day of the Ian Warner investigation. Thinking of it….his little story about the loss of a temporary crown had been crap. Losing a dental implement did not split one's lip or put a tinge of bluish colour upon a bruised looking cheekbone.

She had tried to talk to him, but Ryan had brushed her of. It had hardly come as a surprise: He had fought fire with fire, instead of just letting himself get burnt! They had brushed him off so frequently, shown him so openly that even after almost five years they still didn't particularly like him for replacing their friend Tim Speedle.

For every mistake she or Eric had or anything that had gone wrong –even if it was the explosion of a coal mine in Southern China – they found herself connecting it to Ryan somehow and blaming him for it. Unconsciously she knew it was wrong, but an opposing voice inside her head always told her that if it wasn't for him, none of it would have happened. Concerning Eric it was even worse: Eric was simply and very basically hostile to Wolfe….ever since day one, when he'd turned up on the enquiry into Duke's first accident!

Wolfe had never acted out; had never blown up on anybody. He had just taken the every day's whippings and quietly built a high protective wall around himself. Frankly speaking, aside from his first and last names there was nothing else Calleigh knew about him. She did not even know his birthday and never ever had cared to find out.

"Calleigh, that's nonsense. I think Stetler should know all these details. Perhaps it will help him to nail Wolfe and good riddance of him!" Delko had been slightly surprised by his lover's sad and thoughtful expression. He did not understand, why she hesitated. The opportunity was as good as gold and with a little bit of luck they would be definitively rid of the guy. He simply did not fit in. He was –ever since he'd joined them- the sore of the time…the weak link and issue of countless heated discussions with Cal and even with H.

"Eric, even if you are right….if we go to Stetler, it might backfire. Honestly….ever since Ryan replaced Tim, we have been bullying him also it was not his fault that Speedle got himself killed…."

"Cal, " Eric rose from the bank, his face contorted with rage. 'Leave Tim out of this. This has nothing to do with Speed. I am just talking about a slimy little piece of shit who's perhaps working for the Russians…! I am going to see Stetler, no matter…." He turned round without another word and strode back towards the Crime Lab building.

Calleigh remained thoughtfully on the park bench, her lunch and the pleasure to share it in the bright sunshine with her lover all forgotten.

And if Eric was right? Could it be, that it was their fault that Ryan had turned rogue? Perhaps one moment in time their harassing and bullying had piled up to such a height that Wolfe had gone over the edge and this was just his way to kick out at them.

A few hundred yards further inside the park three other employees of the MDPD CrimeLab were also engaged into a heated discussion about the latest news scoop touching their working place and one of their own.

Maxine Valera, Michael Travers and long-haired IT-wizard Dave Benton were sharing a healthy fresh lunch of grilled chicken, brown rice, tomato salad and iced green tea with lemon on a comfortable checker-patterned blanket under a large, shady palm tree. It was their habit to do this, ever since Travers and Benton had joined the lab and befriended Maxine. Usually every day of the week another of the trio would prepare the food from money they threw into a common lunch cash box, but since things between Valera and Travers had become more serious, Benton had smilingly agreed to do his chores every second day.

"I agree with you, Max! That's completely fishy!" Benton replied to Valera, who had brought up her theory concerning Ryan and what was going on. "There's absolutely no logic in the allegations against him….Wolfe on friendly terms with the Russians….my ass!"

Michael Travers served another round of iced tea to his friends and replaced the food plates with small bowls for the dessert. " If you ask me….they try to spook the Russians and all this is a set up: Lieutenant Caine has already pulled too many tricks over the years to be credible, Delko's still part of a bullet in his brain and I doubt he's capable of doing a 'Jake Berkley' with a straight face and Cal's a girl…ok, she's brave and stout of heart, but Lieutenant Caine would never ever send her into such a situation. You remember, when he faked his own death….his accomplice was Ryan!"

Valera nibbled a slice of juicy sweet ananas. " I think you have a point, Michael! Ever since Eric got himself shot in the head, Lieutenant Caine has turned to Ryan when things became hot or outright dangerous…I would not be surprised, if this is just another stunt and Ryan has agreed to be the bait. From what I know of Ryan, he's not really chickenhearted…he's rather….a little bit like the Lieutenant himself, even if he's a bit les melodramatic!"

"Have you seen Delko?" Travers had observed Eric's over-the-edge reaction during the news cast. "He's always on Ryan, harassing and bashing him. What's it between these two?"

Benton joined in."Yes, Max! Tell us. You have been here longest….why don't they simply go outside and beat each other up and then it's over and we are through with this childish macho behaviour!"

Maxine Valera swallowed the rest of her fruit. She had been asking herself the same question for a while and so had her boss Natalia BoaVista. Everything seemed to be linked to the death of Tim Speedle…the problem was only…Ryan had had nothing to do with Speed's demise. The officer had gotten himself shot during a hold up in a jeweller's store when his gun would not work properly.

"I think, " She replied thoughtfully, "that beating up each other would not help, because Ryan has no clue why Delko is always onto him. I believe Delko is simply upset that Ryan is not Tim Speedle."

"Tim who?" The two young men asked unisono. While both were aware of the fact that there was a unused locker with the name 'Speedle' on it in the locker room, they had joined the lab several years after the officer's death.

"The officer who was at Trace before Ryan. He was killed on duty almost six years ago."

Benton shook his head and Travers elegantly raised an eyebrow.

"A bloke's dead for more then half a decade and Delko's still not through with it…." While Dave was perfectly capable to accept grief and mourning, people who were unable to ever move on were beyond his comprehension.

"Didn't they offer psychological counselling to the colleagues of the deceased, who were present when he died? Normally that's standard procedure." Mike Travers saw it more from a clinical standpoint.

Maxine Valera shrugged her shoulders. "Delko has not been present. Tim Speedle was with the Lieutenant…I still remember that had tried very, very hard to convince Lietenant Caine to see the psychologist after Speed went down…but I do not know for Eric. Sometimes I have the feeling, Delko is simply jealous…as if he wants all the Lieutenant's attention all for himself and when by fortunate coincidence, Ryan get's five minutes for a reason X,Y or Z, he simply cannot cope with it… "


	38. Chapter 38

[Sorry for the long delay, but summer on a farm is a lot of work and I really had no time for writing!]

**Chapter 38 The Caputure of the Sherazade**

Paddy O'Briain kept a low profile. He was perfectly aware of the risks and dangers of this mission. He had managed to convince the crew onboard the 'Sherazade' that his task was just to accompany the 'Mistrals' to Miami and nothing else. They were careful around him, but not over prudent.

He gave one of the Russian sailors a courteous nod and the man smiled back. The 'Sherazade' was approaching US territorial waters; another twenty-four hours and the cargo would be within the reach of US Customs and the ATF. Padraig gave his watch a casual glance, then his eyes went up to the heavens.

It was a calm, beautiful night, the stars shining brightly over the ocean. He thought of Claire and his son. No matter how, he would protect his family: Ryan needed a perfect and spectacular round up of this ship. It was essential that Ivan Sarnoff was completely destabilised and in disgrace with his Moscow-based master Oleg Ivanov. Paddy hoped, that the younger man would overcome his scruples inside the detention facility and do what had to be done.

He wished, he could go in Ryan's stead! He would not hesitate a second with Ivan Sarnoff, also he had never met the man. Paddy gave the stars a last glance, then left his place of choice on the railing and trotted downstairs towards his cabin. Erwan de Kersausson had seen to it that he had the very best equipment French intelligence could provide. He settled on a small chair, fumbled a cell phone from his pocket and posted an SMS. It would be better and much easier for all involved to round up the 'Sherazade' before she'd reach the port of Miami.

Paddy had made up his mind already a long time ago: They were sixteen onboard, including himself. The sailors worked in three shifts of five men to handle the huge ship. He felt perfectly capable to subdue the five men who'd sleep at the moment, when the 'Sherazade' would cross into the territorial waters of the US. Five others would be on the bridge and another five eating or relaxing under deck. He pushed the 'Send' button of his cell and prayed that the French would agree to his foolhardy plan!

**

Frank Tripp watched calmly the incoming information. The French still used the very old fashioned Telex to transmit important news. While it was slower then most modern communication devices, it was also absolutely secure.

'What do you think?' Regine Marais asked him, placing her hands gently on his broad shoulders.

Tripp placed his bear pawn over her long, slender and cool finger. 'I think, that you have a very clever man aboard this cargo!' He replied softly, having deciphered the telex. '….and he's completely crazy….'

Regine laid her cheek upon Frank's strong and reassuring shoulder. She enjoyed the soft warmth of his skin under a layer of clean cotton and deeply inhaled his masculine smell of pethiever, rosemary and lemon. It was not a French after shave, but she liked it nonetheless.

'The agent onboard this cargo is indeed a very clever man!' She said softly.

That he was also Ryan Wolfe's father, she did not mention to Sergeant Tripp. It was not necessary for him to know this detail. They would go together with US Customs, the ATF and MDPD and see to it, that Padraig O'Briain could discreetly disappear, as soon as the cargo would be boarded. Regine smiled: The Americans would be mightily surprised to see a French submarine appear alongside the 'Sherazade'.

It was not that France did not trust their allies! But somehow nobody really wanted to take the risk, that perhaps they'd become curious and try to look at the Mistrals and their launch units. In themselves, Mistrals were no secret. The system had been readily employed for a long time all around the world and the French sold the MANPADs to many countries. But this batch, stolen from a military storage facility in France and then sold of to the Serbs during the late stage of the Yougoslav War, when NATO launched Operation 'Allied Force' in 1999 was a different cup of tea. They had been still experimental and luckily, the illegitimate Serbian purchaser had never used them. Now all they wanted is to get their hardware back, before anybody with keener eyes would look at the missiles too closely!

'You may wish to call H., Frank!' Regine suggested. She would contact the US Customs and ATF herself and arrange the participation of her 'boys' in the raid.

***

Ivan Sarnoff wanted to cry out with rage, but he kept his face cool and managed to show not the slightest emotion, when TV anchor Erica Sykes concluded her three-part mini-series on the Russian mob of Miami with a long and detailed explanation on fixed horse races, corrupted track veterinarians, commissioned murder, brutal blackmailing and rotten apples inside the MDPD, who apparently were involved at various levels, facilitating certain activities or supporting their 'friends' by covering up acts of crime.

'She has done so well until now!' Ivan thought fuming. 'She has caught the essential, told a fascinating tale and most certainly made a superb audimat. And now such a blunder! He had no idea who was Sykes informer inside the MDPD, but the girl had gotten it all wrong. Unfortunately, apart some low ranking foot soldiers of the police forces and a handful of equally low ranking informers, the 'Bratstvo' had nobody inside MDPD to give them a helping hand. What was true, was that Dima Belkin had tried to force Ryan Wolfe to cooperate through blackmail and brutal torture. But Ivan knew all to well how successful his crack henchman had been with Horatio Caine's youngest CSI. Wolfe had been more a problem then help with the murder of the blasted stockbroker Ian Warner.

Now Dima Belkin was dead, the two foot soldiers of the Bratstvo – Cynthia Lang and Jim Colton –were awaiting trial and Dima's little brother Timofeij had met his fate in Paris….and Erica Sykes dared to insinuate a relationship between his organisation and Ryan Wolfe…..for all she had said during her special hinted to exactly this case! Sykes had not named him and she had not named Wolfe or the vet Mark Gantry, but the story fitted. Ivan wondered, if the news anchorwoman's informer inside the MDPD would not be by any chance a certain Lieutenant Horatio Caine. It was possible! Caine might have been convinced that his CSI –considering Wolfe's involvement with Marc Gantry – may have ties with the 'Bratstvo'. What Sarnoff had been told by Danielenko, the evening after Dima Belkin's demise and Billy Gantry's rescue hinted a little bit in this direction. Caine had literally ignored his collaborator and abandoned him on the MDPD front door after little Billy had been returned to his father. And the Lieutenant had met discreetly with Erica Sykes shortly before the CBN journalist had launched her three-parts series on the Russian mob.

He padded Jakov Wolinski on his shoulder, waking the man from his day dream and his fixation on the fine female forms of and motioned to his trusted body guard to accompany him outside. He needed to call Valodija Nevzorov urgently and in order to place a lengthy phone call inside the walls of the detention facility, it was better to be surrounded by his men and outdoors in the sports area.

****

Peter Eliott returned from a long meeting with his superiors. He was tired and worn out from too much overtime and lack of sleep, but the Treasury agent was also elated and deeply satisfied with his piece of work. Over the real estate scam, Ivan Sarnoff had forgotten to pay the lofty sum of 8 million US to Uncle Sam; most of his other semi-legal enterprises were also at fault with the US Treasury and even the legal Aegean Fighting Club owned the government 250.000 dollars in unpaid dues. There were only very few establishments that the French had been able to connect in one way or another with the 'Bratstvo' that had clean book keeping. The others were either negligent in the old Al Capone style or outright fraudulent. His Miami business would blow to 's face in a short while, both completely ruining the mobster and settling him for good in a US prison.

Peter dialled Horatio Caine's number on his cell phone and informed his MDPD colleague that he'd meet him with a slight delay in the canteen, where they planned to lunch together. He desperately needed a splash of cold water on his face and a fresh shirt.

Caine smiled and decided to buy himself another orange juice, while he waited for Eliott. The French bounty was so wonderful, that the treasury agent seemed to sleep in his office. Never before had Horatio spied Peter badly shaven or badly dressed, but over the last two weeks he'd become almost accustomed to the man with five o'clock shadows, crumpled shirts, no ties and dark rings under his eyes. From what he had learned, the enterprises of Ivan Sarnoff were all owing large sums of money to the US Treasury Department. Peter intended to work through them down to the last and then come down on the Russian mobster hard and rough….if there'd be still a mobster to punish.

Hardly an hour ago, Horatio had received a phone call from Frank Tripp. The plan was to take the 'Sherazade' at sea during the early morning hours of the next day, as soon as the cargo was inside US territorial waters. He chuckled softly. Commander Regine Marais was a very clever woman. Had they decided to take the ship, once in Miami harbour, she'd had the risk to be either excluded from the operation or on the sidelines. Now the waters were not MDPD jurisdiction, but belonged to the US Coast Guards and Caine was convinced that the French legal attaché already had her deal with ATF. So it would be him and the MDPD, who'd attend the whole event as tourists. He supposed that Regine's little trick had to do with the French agent onboard the 'Sherazade'. As far as he had understood, they were extremely keen to get their man out as soon as possible. He doubted, that the security reasons Commander Marais had mentioned were the truth. If the agent was competent and courageous enough to first get on board, then survive two weeks surrounded by the Russian crew, he'd also be quite capable to defend himself when law enforcement would storm the ship.

Peter Eliott, slightly better looking and with a clean shirt gently tapped Lieutenant Caine's shoulder. 'I am sorry for the delay." The soft-spoken Treasury agent said. '…but we had quite a meeting upstairs. You have my most sincere gratitude for these information concerning Sarnoff. He'll bleed…..'

Horatio smiled. 'Thanks for the nice wine, Peter! That was very kind of you. I think, my folks will appreciate it." He lowered his voice. 'You may wish to know that tomorrow another part of 's business will crumble to pieces. It might be a good idea to profit from the occasion and give him immediately another stab into the back."

Eliott took his seat and helped himself to some water. 'You are not going to tell me, H.?"

Caine shook his head. Peter would learn the news –if everything went according to plan – like everybody else in Miami, from a newscast. The situation was too hairy to talk about it aloud. Nonetheless, he wished his Treasury friend prepared and ready to react immediately. It was hunter's wisdom, that a wounded beast could turn very dangerous. And a second shot at the raging bull that Ivan Sarnoff was likely to become as soon as he learned of the seizure of the 'Sherazade' and the failure of his arms deal was more then welcome. Regine Marais had promised, that the official buyer of the French Mistrals, the US-based PIRA intermediary would also react at once and claim his money back from the 'Bratstvo'.

Eliott drank deeply. A smile made his tired face appear suddenly young and mischievious.'It is you, who's behind that CBS TV4 programm on the Russian mob! I am right, am I?'

Caine gave a small nod. 'Not really I!' He said gracefully. 'It was more Rick Stetler's doing. He worked with and the TV station….and a fair job he did.'

'Stetler?' Peter was surprised. He had always know the sergeant as a strict and dutiful IAB officer.

Horatio gave a deep sigh. It was perhaps time to make amends. He had not always been fair with Stetler and therefore would not begrudge the ill-loved and despised IAB a moment of glory. 'Rick has many qualities, Peter. One of them is a good feeling for difficult situations and a good hand with the press. Should you abandon your office and return home for a while, keep turned in on CBS. There may be interesting news tomorrow at lunch time!' He padded Eliott on the shoulder, gave his watch a casual glance and bad the treasury agent farewell. The countdown had started. He'd go back to MDPD and inform the Chief. Then he'd chose four officers from the SWAT to accompany him onto the 'Sherazade'. US Customs, ATF and the French would run the show, but Regine Marais had advised him to bring rough and ready support, should need arise. Hopefully part of the sailors onboard the cargo would already be neutralised, when they'd seize the ship. But if ever the situation would be different, every man wielding a gun and able to fight would be most welcome.

*****

O'Briain checked his watch. The reply from his French associates had been extremely short and to the point. They agreed with his project and suggested the hour before sunrise. Men were drowsy and less alert in the early morning, when sleep was still heavy in their limbs. He had sneaked out to check on the night crew. They were all at their posts, stirring the huge cargo professionally over the calm Atlantic Ocean.

The US Customs were perfectly aware of the 'Sherazade's' position. Courtesy requested, that the officer in charge announced via radio a ship's entry into the territorial waters of another country. Paddy had even listened in on the exchange with Miami. The Eastern German captain was sleeping peacefully in his cot and his second in command, an experienced Russian officer of about 50 years of age had called the port authorities some ten minutes ago. If he worked with speed and silence, nobody upstairs would even realise what had happened. Rendezvous was scheduled in fifteen minutes….time enough to do the deed!

******

The French submarine of the Daphne Class lingered noiselessly under the huge cargo. They had been discreetly accompanying the ship for the last 48 hours. Nothing better for a nuclear sub to hide behind, then the monstrous and slow moving carcass of a container ship! The captain gave the watch a casual glance. Rendezvous was scheduled in fifteen minutes! He imagined, the Americans would not be all too happy to see them appear on the surface of the ocean, but he could not care less about this tiny violation of territorial waters. He had orders to recover the Mistrals, their launch units and the radar systems from the 'Sherazade' together with the DGSE guy, who was on board and get the whole lot back to France. The rest of the freight, the arms trafficking crew and some two and a half thousand Kalashnikovs were for their US brethren to delight!

*******

Frank Tripp fiddled with his bullet proof. He hated these things and he felt as if he wore some mediaeval armour.

"Stop fidgeting, Frank!" Regine Marais, clad in rather fashionable black and a bullet proof of her own , admonished the huge MDPD sergeant by her side. Behind them stood a wolf pack of youngish, well-trained and cold-eyed males, Frank had already met at the French Consulate general in Miami. Neither of them was apparently, what they had told him when being introduced; Regine's polite and dutiful secretary, who was so good at serving coffee and nibbles seemed perfectly at ease with his FAMAS assault rifle and the boy, who'd been driving him around as a chauffeur checked his weapon with experienced hands. The other guy –Regine had pretended that he was working for 'Alliance Francaise', the French cultural center attached to the Consulate Generale checked his watch and told the Commander that they still had another fifteen minutes and the two last members of the crew were obviously not only skilled in stamping tourist visas onto passports!

Regine chuckled. 'We do what we can, dear friend!' She said, as if she'd read his thoughts. 'You'd be surprised to see the various skills of the US Embassy gardener in Paris…..or his colleague, who sits at the reception desk!'

"Heavens…!" Frank sighed,'…what have I gotten myself into? All sleuths and spies…."

"Not all, Frank!' She smiled. 'I am really just a honest police officer doing his job!"

*******

The East German captain did not even wake up! Paddy had been so quick to push the hypodermic needle under his skin and inject the powerful anaesthetics, that the man only grunted, when he feel into a deep unconsciousness that would last for three of four hours. It would have been easier and more elegant to snap the bastard's neck, but his French associates had asked him to limit his killer instinct to the absolute necessary minimum and leave the Captain alive for questioning. He gave a sigh, drew the blanket over the unconscious captain's shoulder, fumbled the man's revolver from its place in the night desk drawer and unloaded the weapon. Better safe then sorry! Then he continued his early morning stroll to the adjacent cabin, where two other crew members would continue to sleep for a very long time.

It took Padraig hardly five minutes to dose one third of the 'Sherazade' sailors with drugs solid enough to put a 1,5 tons bull to his knees. This had been the easy part of his project.

His next stop would prove to be more complicate; another five crew members were at this very morning having breakfast in the ship's canteen. They would replace the crew members on the bridge of the 'Sherazade' in about twenty-five minutes time, leaving him with ten minutes to neutralize these men and another fifteen minutes for the US Customs and his French friends to arrive, should they be ever delayed for some reason.

Paddy opened the door to the canteen, his sweater over his right arm, hiding a .22 calibre with a silencer. He had made it a habit over the last few days to occasionally appear very early for breakfast. The men at the table did not even lift their heads when he entered. One stood over by the coffee filled thermos, turning his back and another was helping himself to more scrambled eggs from a hotplate.

Before the man had finished, the three sailors at the table were already down. The one, who was getting himself more coffee turned around, disturbed by the soft 'plop' of the silencer, but had not even time to cry out before crumbling himself to the ground, a neat hole between his two eyes. The fifth man let his full plate fall to the ground and lifted his hands, but Padraig had no intention to take even the slightest risk and killed him in the same cold blood, he had killed the other four. His early morning tasks successfully accomplished, he turned around, closed the canteen door over the bloody mess he'd left behind and returned, as if nothing had happened to his own cabin. According to his watch, the US Coast Guards and law enforcment should appear in less then three minutes. A soft rumble under the large hull of the 'Sherazade' indicated that the French submarine announced by his associates of the DGSE was disengaging itself from its hiding place and prepared to surface. Paddy pulled his secure cell phone from a pocket of his kaki trousers. The message had been prepared in advance. He had never ever doubted the success of his project. It was enough to push the 'Send' button to inform the French legal attaché Commander Marais on one of the approaching boats, that they had only five crew members on the bridge to handle.

********

After the secretive preparations and the lengthy briefings of the last night, the conclusion of the seizure of the 'Sherazade' proved somehow to be a complete anticlimax. When Horatio together with the four MDPD SWATs he'd chosen to accompany him boarded the cargo, everything was already over. The group from ATF was swarming like mad hornets over deck, while four of Commander Regine Marais armed and dangerous lapdogs surrounded a fifth man –broad shoulders, with close cropped salt and pepper hair and clad in kaki, who pointed out four specific containers on the back end of the cargo.

Next to the 'Sherazade' floated the menacing body of a black submarine. Armed men stood on its body and a group of specialists towed the sub to the cargo and prepared something, that looked like a crane. It seemed, as if the French intended to take their stolen military hardware from the 'Sherazade' and then return directly to their homeland without even a detour to Miami. The US Customs officials were happily handcuffing the sailors who had been on the bridge and some other law enforcement officers transported lifeless looking bodies from the ship's belly onto the waiting Customs speedboat.

Frank Tripp gave Horatio a baleful glance. His bullet proof hung loosely over his heavy body and his service weapon was tucked away in its holster. 'You should have a look downstairs!' He whispered.' A carnage! It sees as if the French have asked their guy on board to clean up before we came."

Horatio gave Regine Marais a suspicious look. She stood with her men and the broad shouldered fellow in kaki, speaking to all in rapid French. 'Somehow, I am not surprised, Frank! I suppose, she did not tell you?'

Tripp shook his head.' It is none of our business. I believe, we have what we want and Customs is having a heyday with all the rest and the men they have taken alive. Let it be!'

Horatio observed Regine Marais and the broad shouldered guy exchanging a few words and a most cordial embrace. Then the man climbed overboard, down a ladder into a waiting dingy and disappeared towards the waiting French submarine. He had not seen him clearly, but something about the agent had been familiar….it reminded Caine of somebody else, but he was not capable to say of whom…..perhaps with a little bit of distance and some hard thinking he'd remember. Something was very familiar….the gestures, the physic, the way, the unknown French agent had laughed at some words from Regine……

Frank Tripp also watched the man climb on board the French sub and then disappear inside its enormous belly. 'I am rather happy to be only a simple police officer!' He said to Horatio. '….downstairs…..he has killed these blokes in cold blood….five bodies….clean shoots… right between the eyes or in the heart….like a butcher….22 calibre….and he simple laughs and jokes with his colleagues, as if nothing has happened…'

Horatio squeezed Tripp's shoulder. 'For them nothing has happened. They have their Mistrals and their radars back and they help us to cull a dangerous beast….I think, our unknown friend who has so readily disappeared will not have a nightmare….he'll rather indulge in some champagne with his friends onboard the submarine….'

Tripp nodded. 'I believe, we also merit a nice bottle, H. As soon as this seizure is out on TV news tonight, I am certain that Ivan Sarnoff is as good as dead."


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 37 Twenty-four Hours**

*

This phone call meant that his reprieve was coming to an end soon. Ryan smiled nonetheless. Claire was slightly upset with Paddy. Even outside in the garden it was easy to understand each and every piece of her mind!

'You awful, horrible, dreadful bastard….How could you….I was terrified….you said, you'd be back in two or three days….I hate you…I love you…..I'll kill you, as soon as you are back….I miss you…."

He heard her voice breaking with tiny little sobs, a mix of happiness, anger and outright relief. It would be funny to observe his father's homecoming; The broad shouldered tall and brave knight in shining armour cowering before a tiny piece of woman whose intent was to strangle him on the spot. He was rather happy that he was not in Paddy's shoes!

Inside, Claire seemed to calm down a little. She treated Paddy slightly more gently on the phone. The Daphne-class submarine would take another few days to return back to France and with a little bit of luck Claire would cool down….or else he'd be obliged to make all her sharp kitchen knives disappear and hide the old hunting rifle that hung over the chimney sill of his father's library.

Ryan chuckled softly. Perhaps Claire would withdraw the wedding bans at the Mairie of Crozon and cancel their long expected marriage that had been scheduled for Christmas Day 2009. That would be an exquisite punishment for his unruly father! He had proposed to Claire on Christmas Day 1999 and Madame le Professeur had accepted his proposal….under the condition that he'd behave like a grown up for 10 years in a row! When Gwen finally decided to bow to the greater technical skills of her slightly younger and more level-headed twin Mari, Ryan felt the light touch of Claire's hand on his shoulder.

'I told you, he'd be fine!" He said softly when he felt Claire's hand on his shoulder. Ryan leaned back comfortably against her and enjoyed the warmth of his step mother's body.

Claire pulled Ryan closer and kissed him on his cheek.'He frightens me, Ryan! Even if I know that Paddy can take care of himself, I do not want him to go and risk his neck…..I do not want you go and risk yours either….The two of you have given me more trouble in hardly two decades then a herd of enraged bulls in a lifetime!"

'I always believed that I was a good boy, Claire!' Ryan smiled mischieviously.

Claire settled down in the soft grass behind her step son, envelopping him with her arms and relaxing against his broad shoulders. 'On a whim you cross the Atlantic and live far away in the Americas and you call this being a good boy? ' Claire shook her head. He was perhaps even worse then his father. At least with Paddy she had known from the very first moment that life would never be easy. 'Are you happy over there?' She enquired prudently.

Sergeant Frank Tripp had called two more times after his first surprise phone call the day after Ryan's arrival. His Miami colleague had not only enquired after Ryan's well being but also passed on some information and in the aftermate of Tripp's phone calls she had found her step son in front of her computer watching over and over replays of some CBS newscasts.

It had been very obvious that he was not really interested in the subject of the Russian mob but rather in the slender, blond haired news anchor Erica Sykes, who presented the programms. Claire had tried to approach the subject of his ex-fiancée gently, insinuating to Ryan to perhaps reply to her e-mail. But the younger O'Briain had simply shaken his head and left the house to hide for hours at end in the gardens.

'Honestly Claire? I do not know! I love her still and I want her back…and I like what I do at the MDPD, even if the working climate is shit and there are moments, when I wish that some of my colleagues would disappear in a flash of lightning from the surface of the planete….sometimes I'd like to tell my boss that he's a slow-witted asshole and sometimes I am close to selling my house and taking the next Air France flight back home….but life is not always easy and I am not so certain that things would be very much different in 's lab in Brest or your lab in Garches…………..'

'You love this girl and you love your job and you feel that you are right between the hammer and the anvil?'

Ryan gave a humble nod. Claire had put her long slender finger right into his open wound and it hurt. 'I do!' He replied carefully. He was very much aware of the fact that his cosy heritage and financial independence gave him an awful lot of choices many other people did not have. He was not obliged to work to earn a living and nobody could coerce him by means of a working contract. But things were different for Erica! She came from a family of five. She was the eldest daughter and had been obliged to fight her way through university and into CBS. Had he not taken upon himself to abandon his PhD, find a cheaper university and walk patrol to pay her last year, she'd never been able to make it at all. Ryan lowered his head. They had never ever spilled the secret to Erica's parents ….her mother and father would have been just too deeply humiliated to learn the truth….

'It is her, isn't it?' Claire nagged gently. Ryan's head fell onto his knees and the young man shuddered, also the termometer showed a solid 32°C in the shadows.

'If her parents ever find out, how she got her degree, they'll die of shame, Claire! They are good people, like you and Paddy…really nice and kind and hard working....but five daughters over in the US is a heavy burden….college is expensive….university even more so…they do not simply pay 45 € per semester and on they go, like we here in France…………'

Claire chuckled softly and tusseled Ryan's short cropped hair. 'Women…." She smiled,"….it always comes down to women! Why didn't you tell us?'

'I take care of my own!' Ryan replied with a hard, stubborn etch to his voice.

Claire had a difficult time prevenmting herself to burst into laughter. He was really worse then his father, even if he was slightly more predictable. O'Briain pride would never ever admit to ask for help! She padded Ryan gently on his shoulders. The welts and bruises from his unfortunate encounter with this nasty Russian mobster Dimitrij Belkin were almost gone and even his broken ribs were on the mend." Well, young man! I do not doubt that you care for your own …but that is no reason to turn yourself into a bundle of nerves!' She dragged him rather heartlessly up, not caring if his badly stitched cuts or bruises would hurt. ' But if this is so, then you will behave reasonably now! You still love this girl?' Claire gave him a healthy push in the back. His welts were sufficiently mended to cope with a little bit of pain.

' …then you go to my computer, sit down and reply to her e-mails! I am not your secretary! I am not your kindly spirit to print out e-mails and reply in your stead to sweet, little ! Honestly, Ryan…I am rather fed up with transcribing your inmost feelings, because you buy time and pretend that you cannot tell her in written….I have enough problems with your stubborn father. Believe me, I cannot and will not solve the problems of your love life!"

Ryan grummbled something incomprehensible, drew a face like a five years old and followed Claire demurely back into the house. He did not want her to solve his problems with Erica! He was a grown up man and could do this himself…..but honestly: An e-mail exchange was not the best carrier for his innermost feelings and desires and even if H. had apparently been good enough to shred the fatal restraining order in front of Erica and admitted that he had been wrong….it was not so easy? Just destroying a piece of paper…..!

His heart ached and suddenly the idea of Sarnoff, Bunker Hill, the end of this reprieve and the mud they'd throw in his face soon had become irrelevant.

Ryan felt quite capable to manage the situation and survive prison, even if Ivan Sarnoff and half a dozen of Ivan's friends were inside waiting for him and wetting their knives! But he was not so sure when it came down to Erica: He loved her and his body ached for her! Could he nonetheless simply forget the childish fit over the restraining order that had forced him out of his home? Could he scratch off his mind the times, when she had tried to worm information concerning the MDPD and the CSI out of him? Would he be mature enough to turn the page and never ever think of these moments, when she had forgotten the fact that they lived together in order to further her career with CBS? Were a police officer and an ambitious investigation journalist really a viable option?

Claire laughed heartlessly. Ryan's dilemma was written in bold letters right over his brow. His very own and very personal Catch-22 had never ever been a true secret to two decades ago she had been in a similar situation, standing in front of a mirror and asking herself the fatal question, if a notorious terrorist and a renowned forensic pathologist could have a common future. It had taken her almost six months and a lot of courage to reply 'Yes'to this question ….with Paddy sleeping on her doormat and literally withering away in front of her eyes! But in the end, she had never ever regretted her decision. But before Claire could give her step son a bit of sound advise and perhaps another determined push, Ryan's French police cell phone rang and he turned suddenly very pale, when he saw who was calling. He took the incoming call, listened silently to the caller and then snapped the phone shut. His face had turned into a mask.

'How long?' Claire asked softly.

'Twentyfour hours!' Ryan replied. 'Just another day!'

**

Rick Stetler watched Erica Sykes and Commander Regine Marais from the sidelines of the television stage.

Under normal circumstances he would have been disgusted with the two women; Regine in rigid dark grey, looking like Snow White's nasty stepmother and speaking with an icy, cutting voice and Erica –in lighter grey but equaly strict – resuming the statement of the French legal attaché in short, precise words for the general public.

Basically it came down to Assistant State Attorney Derek Powell's clever setup: First they had shown the spectators a highly exciting newscast of the capture of the 'Sherazade' by US Customs, ATF and MDPD, underlining the helpful intelligence from France that had allowed US law enforcement to catch very nasty arms smugglers closely connected to the Russian mob. Regine had professionally commented on the police operation and then told the public a couple of very clever lies. Then the French legal attaché had explained, that while the US Customs, ATF and MDPD had brought down the 'Sherazade', french police special forces had run a large scale operation in the Paris region, arresting two dozen mobsters, directly or indirectly involved with afore-mentionned arms traffick. The whole operation was considered a wonderful success and France congratulated MDPD and the other US police forces involved and thanked them for their magnificent cooperation.

When Regine had finished with her enthusiastic shoulder slapping and laudatory speech, Erica had thrown in the case of the Notre Dame showdown, of Ryan and Tim Belkin's violent and untimely demise.

Regine had pulled a most convincing Rita Hayworth, declaring in a hard voice and with icy eyes that her colleagues of the Paris Police Prefecture had been investigating this case and come to the conclusion that both – the deceased Tim Belkin and the aprehended stray CSI Ryan Wolfe were heavily involved with the Miami Russian mob. Considering the fact that Wolfe killing Belkin had been simply self defence and that ASA Derek Powell did not request his extradiction on charges of manslaughter, but on simple charges of fraudulent absence from duty, malfeasance in office, conspiracy and corruption, the State Attorney of France had decided to grant the request of ASA Derek Powell and hand CSI Wolfe over to the relevant authorities within the next 48 hours.

Rick Stetler snorted softly. He had seen a lot of mischief in almost 10 years with the IAB, but he had never ever come accros a rogue police officer who had managed this impressive set of incriminations. Fortunately Regine had told him before the TV show, where she figured as Erica's special guest, that France's legal system did not take kindly to rogue policemen either and that if the charges against Ryan would have been true, he'd probably earned himself an even heavier prison term in France then in Florida.

He fumbled a bit with his cute silk tie, whipped some sweat from his brow and told himself that all this was just a set up and not for real. It would be pretty hard to smile at the two girls as soon as the camera was switched off….even if he was perfectly aware that neither meant any harm to his little CSI.

Erica closed her office door firmly, dropped into her chair and kicked off her high heels. "I hate this, Rick!" She told her MDPD shadow miserably.

Commander Regine Marais, accompanied by two of her cold-eyed and broad-shouldered 'boys' had already left the TV studio, head held high, lips pinced firmly together and with a look on her face that would instantly kill an alligator. It had been the best choice. Nobody outside their small circle of conspirators must be made aware of the whole set up. Horatio Caine had kept his silence ever since the capture of the 'Sherazade' leaving the entire media humbug to Stetler and the Chief. Frank Tripp stayed grounded in the fortress that was the French Consulate General in Miami and ASA derek Powell was bidding his time in his office at the Dade court house.

'It is almost over, Erica!' Rick replied gently. 'You did damn well….even I was willing to believe you and Regine and for a moment…I hated the two of you with all my heart!'

Erica lowered her head to hide a mischievious smile.'We were that good?'

Stetler pulled himself a chair, made himself comfortable and took the young journalist's hand. 'Even better, Dear! If you made me believe….and I am in on the whole set up….what do you think Ivan Sarnoff saw today during his lunchtime telly break?'

Erica fidgeted a little. This tiny little question had been trotting on her mind for the last two weeks. 'Do you really think he can pull this through without getting hurt?' Stetler had first become a confident, then slowly…a trusted friend and somehow over a cup of coffee and in the security of her little house in Miami with the two cats by her side she had opened up a bit and told him. She had been surprised that Rick –while taken aback by Horatio Caine's rough and cruel handling of their situation – had also taken his defense and tried to explain the rather fragile equilibrium of the day shift after Tim Speedle's death.

Rick thought for a little moment. The Chief had asked him the same question, but unwilling to backstab Horatio and divulge the truth that Ivan Sarnoff and not the boss of the crime lab had chosen his adversary, he had hidden behind some diplomatic phrases. 'I do not know, Erica!" He answered thruthfully. "Ryan has never been in this line of business. He has never worked under cover and this is not even a classic undercover operation but rather a highly sophisticate stage play. He's a good cop and a good CSI. I do hope, Ryan is also a good actor.'

***

Officer Neill Hunter observed the prisoner with great interest. Something had changed over the last few days, but he could not put his finger on it: The man was less surrounded by his 'friends', more often alone and seemed isolated. Several of the other prisoners who were habitually sufficiently impressed by the criminal and his group of nasty friends were no longer as forthcoming and as sycophantic as they used to be. Ivan Sarnoff had even been obliged to queue up for his lunch….a first in his six months of residence in the Miami detention facility.

Hunter had a feeling that this was most likely linked to a recent prime time scoop on CBS. US Customs, ATF and the MDPD had rounded up a cargo full of highly illegal military equipment and two and a half thousand automatic weapons. Apparently there was rock solid proof for the involvement of the Russian mob of had been a bloody shoot out on board the cargo, leaving four Russians, a German, who had been an officer in the former Eastern German Navy and another EU national, who was a notorious terrorist dead. Ten other men, all Russians, had been apprehended and taken into custody.

The prison guard decided that his good friend Lieutenant Horatio Caine would be very much interested to learn about Ivan Sarnoff's most curious little change. Lieutenant Caine was always interested in Ivan, for he believed that the man was responsible for greater and more despicable crimes then horse race fixing, extorsion and blackmail.

****

Vladimir Nevzorov had had a very bad day and his night began even worse: First the capture of the Sherazade…..Heaven only knew, who might have tipped of US Customs and the law enforcement agencies, then Oleg Ivanov's phone call from Moscow….Oleg was not amused and whenever the 'vozhd' was not 'amused' it meant that a very muscled and rather bloody organisational restructuring would take place soon! With Ivan Sarnoff in Bunker Hill and him substituting for Ivan, this could mean his head as well as Sarnoff's. Oleg Ivanov was not known for his forgiving nature and kind heart and he had never been one to overlook a detail….or a second-in-command!

And now this: His key client was as mightily pissed with the whole situation and extremely unhappy. Apparently Jacov Jarovsky with whom the PIRA representative had concluded his deal on 120 brand new French Mistral MANPAds and several launch units es port Miami had shown a certain lack of diplomacy, when explaining to the Irishman that he would not receive his goods due to an unforseen and unforseable complication. Apparently Jacov had had also the bad taste to tell the professional terrorist that he could not get his 2 million US dollars back, because they were now safely tucked away on an off shore bank account of the 'Bratstvo' and illegal arms smuggling was a risky business. Apparently Jarovsky had also lacked emphaty when the discussion had touched upon the fallen comrade of the PIRA rep. It came basically down to Nevzorov now looking into the horrified and horribly dead eyes of Jacov Jarovsky who had been delivered a short time ago together with his sewered head but without the habitually attached body, neatly packed in a parcel by one of Miami's express courrier services directly to his office on the second floor of 'The Forge'.

Vladimir Nevzorov was fully aware of the fact that the IRA and its offsprings tended to express dissatisfaction directly. They had never belonged to the type of clientele who would politely register a claim with the customer's department of the 'Bratstvo' and wait patiently for compensatory delivery or reimboursment. He re-read the little note that had been attached to Jacov's forehead with a safety pin. The PIRA representative invited him to return the 2 million US dollars within 48 hours together with 14 days of interest, which he calculated –considering the fact that the money had been deposited on an off-shore account in Banco Espirito Santo International Ltd Grand Cayman branch, the hard-nosed Irish terrorist estimated, that the 'bratstvo' had earned at least 10% on their money.

They had a cheek! Nobody gave you today 10% interest rates, not even a bank on Grand Cayman, dealing with tax offenders and other rogues….they had scrapped miserable 4,5%, hardly 0,5% more then on a honorable life insurance or pension fund with a honourable bank in a civilised country! But that bloddy Irish rouge insisted on 10% together with his deposit or else he would not content himself with the head of Jacov Jarovsky!

Valodija Nevzorov had an attack of sweating, when he read along the list of targets…one name per day in form of delay penalty! The PIRA was even more blood thirsty then Oleg Ivanov in Moscow on a bad day….and the first name on the list was his own. The PIRA rep had had the cheek to explain that it was easier to off him, since he was not behind prison bars and that Ivan would perhaps feel more stimulated to work out the kicks of reimbursement and interests if he'd receive Nevzorov's head directly into his cosy cell.

He closed the lid of the parcel over Jacov Jarovsky's unseeing eyes, purred himself a very straight Bourbon and slumped into his leather chair. First and foremost he had to appease the Irish. It was best to simply send excuses and return the money and the 10%. The PIRA meant business and was not easily bullied….not even by the notorious Russian mob and Nevzorov prefered to keep a good relationship with them. He'd take it upon himself and use money from their Miami accounts instead of haggling with Moscow and spending hours explaining himself with Ivanov's chief accountant.

Next step would be to try and put the blame for the entire 'Sherazade' catastrophy onto Alex Rossinski and his bunch in Paris……better Rossinski would get in the line of fire of the 'vozhd' then him or Ivan. Anyhow….somebody had tipped off the US Customs and the ATF and Nevzorov was 100% sure that none of their people here in Miami was at fault. So the traitor was obviously in Paris and therefore everything was Rossinski's fault….and if it was impossible to blam Alex…..well…..

Valodija Nevzorov looked around himself and found his office, his situation in Miami, his restaurants and the two night clubs most becoming…….he had been much cleverer then Ivan! Ivan had been stupid enough to attract the attention of that blasted CSI boss Horatio Caine. Their troubles had begun immediately after Ivan had personally beaten to death this stubborn guy Nathan Madden…………..if he could not blame Alex Rossinski in Paris, he'd see to it that Oleg Ivanov's boiling rage would be redirected against Ivan….better Ivan then him!


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 38 – The Shadow of a Doubt**

Habitually, extradition was laborious business and subject to waste range of lengthy procedures including the 'Instruction Chamber' of the French 'Court of Appeal', the French supreme court of last resort, also called 'Court de Cassation' and finally the French government itself. First legal experts would carefully check, if a crime was political or not, then they would control, if the person in question might be subject to a death sentence in the country that requested the extradition. Finally they would look through the human rights record of that country and in the end, they would provide their conclusions to the government. The government of France, who would take a so-called decree of extradition was bound by the conclusions of the legal experts. But even a signed decree of extradition did not mean the end and a person's departure. A last way out remained open and years could go bye if he or she who should be send to face the justice of another state would appeal in front of the State Council. This happened often and extradition from France, as from all civilised countries of the world, was indeed very tricky business.

In the case of CSI Ryan Wolfe things went much smoother. ASA Powell had skilfully worded his letter to the French authorities and underlined, that the subject of their request was still a commissioned police officer. Even with Ryan being uncooperative, this trick would have sealed his fate! But Ryan was cooperative and willing to go and since he was no criminal and the people signing his decree fully aware of this fact, the little farce took the key actors hardly 48 hours.

The French Secretary of the Interior willingly signed a set of fake documents with his good name for and on behalf of the French government and Ryan and the judges of the Court of Appeal and the Court of Cassation had not even to meet to conclude. The necessary documents that would be shown on the other side of the Atlantic to representatives of the news media in order to make his integration of the Miami Detention Facility Bunker Hill credible to some of the prisons inmates were perfect and most wonderful fakes.

Commander Jean Paul Moulin stored them carefully in a leather folder with the seal of the Ministry of Justice of France on it and hoped that in the meantime his colleague Regine Marais would have been able to retrieve Ryan's US passport from his safety deposit box at the Miami branch of BNP. The manager had been a bit surprised when Ryan had called and requested this little favour but following an official telex of the Paris Police Prefect had agreed to comply with his client's whim. French customs –for once- would not check a passport of a passenger on an outgoing Air France flight to the US and hopefully Regine's partners in crime –together with adequate media coverage- would await him and his 'prisoner' on the footsteps of the Airbus at Miami International Airport.

The show had to go on and according to the latest information received from MDPD, Sarnoff was overripe for harvesting!

Moulin turned to Wolfe, who sipped a coffee and locked rather subdued. A set of steel handcuffs dangled from his fingers. 'It is time, dear friend! You have to look the role you play…..so hands behind your back, turn around and be a good boy!'

Ryan finished his coffee. 'If you say so! The last time someone put handcuffs on me was at Police Academy……"

Moulin snapped the implements of justice shut and put the keys into the pocket of his light linen jacket. 'You know, they can be good fun in the right situation….' He replied with mischief, '….you should try…..at least once….'

Wolfe bit down a smile. JP had a fashion to lighten up even such a bleak moment. It would be difficult to keep a straight face…'Let's get over and done with it Jean-Paul.' He pushed a certain image violently from his mind, swallowed hard and dropped his head. He had to get out of the Paris Police Prefecture and into a police car without looking overly cheerful.

Last night he had been authorized by Erwan de Kersausson to watch the first interrogation of Russian mobster Alexandr Rossinski through a mirror, which was another moment of glee he had to suppress. Francois Delvaux and his Organised Crime Unit had crashed down on the entire Paris branch of the Ismayilovskaia Bratstvo hardly an hour after de Kersausson had received a phone call from Commander Regine Marais, informing him of the successful capture of the cargo 'Sherazade'. At least something good had come out from his own trials with the Russian mob. There were no small benefits!

The operation in Paris had included not only the Delveaux's people but also Moulin's RAID and a team of the French SWAT –GIGN. Altogether they had 35 live mobsters in detention and 9 dead mobsters downstairs in the morgue. Only one French SWAT had sustained a slight injury during a noisy and spectacular shoot out in a storage facility of the mafia at Goussainville on the outskirt of Paris.

At this very moment, French police officers were bringing down more associates of Rossinski's in Lyon, Marseilles, Bordeaux and Lille and agents of the French treasury were blocking 'Bratstvo' accounts in French banks by the dozen. The boss of the Paris branch of the 'Ismaiylovskaia' was singing like a bird in order to save his skin….and at this very moment, everything –even a French high security prison and an individual cell with 24/24 surveillance seemed better to him then the wrath of his boss in Moscow.

**

Rick Stetler bit down an icy remark when Eric Delko pushed the closing elevator doors forcefully open and slipped in with him. Delko had already badgered him twice concerning Ryan Wolfe and the case of the stock broker Ian Warner and twice Stetler had explained to him patiently that he was fully aware of the entire issue from A to Z. But the CSI seemed to be completely unwilling to accept this simple statement and let it be.

When the elevator door was closed, Delko's face became determined and he slapped his hand forcefully on the 'Stop' button.

Rick Stetler gave a deep sigh. It was completely useless to try and reason with the man. He was blinded by his hatred of Wolfe and still very much distraught over the death of Tim Speedle almost six years ago. The bullet still in Delko's brain probably added to the man's irrational behaviour.

'Ok, Delko!' He said, forcing his voice to be civil and polite, '…since I am unable to convince you of the contrary…..go on and enlighten me….but let us as least get upstairs and into my office and I will take your official deposition in due form! But be warned….sometimes depositions can backfire on those who sign them and I do not want you to come crying on me shoulder, should this be the case with you."

Eric took his fist of the 'Stop' button, trying very hard to gain his composure and reply calmly. This was not an easy task. He was perfectly aware that he tended to go immediately over the edge and lash out as soon as the name of Wolfe was mentioned. Each and every time, Wolfe came up, Eric saw before his inner eye a coffin that was levelled into a hole six feet deep and a dozen uniformed police officers stepping back to fire a last salute for a fallen comrade. Occasionally he'd even relive the moment, when he met Tim Speedle's ghost on Miami beach, following the phantom to a cliff and finding a key piece of evidence: a burnt piece of tubing. The shrink had told him his seeing Tim were only temporary hallucinations, but it was hard for Eric to believe the doctor, because the temporary thing was not going away.

He looked to the friend standing by his side asking him silently for advise.

'Tell him everything, Eric!' He heard Speed's voice in his head. 'Wolfe is just a little asshole and full of shit….it is not the Russians who are trying to break you…it is him.'

Eric gave Speed a nod and told him that he understood. Then he followed Stetler into his office.

***

For once Horatio decided that he could accept the glass of whisky Regine offered. The Air France flight 236 had taken off from Paris CdG with CSI Wolfe and a colleague of Commander Marais on board and would arrive in five hours time at MIA. Everything was ready, even if the afterglow of the successful capture of the cargo 'Sherazade' was already wearing of.

Frank Tripp held out a tray with sandwiches to H. 'Take it easy, man!' He said gently. 'Everything will be all right!"

Regine, who still did not like Lieutenant Caine and found him cold and ruthless took upon herself, overcame her dislike and laid a warm, long fingered hand soothingly on his forearm. 'We have already captured 35 conmen of the Ismayilovskaiya in Paris alone, Horatio. At this very moment my colleagues are literally closing down the entire Russian mob business in France. Please….you will see…everything will work out…..has not Peter Eliott told you that they can destroy all Sarnoff's activities with what they have on his tax frauds…..you will be rid of them for a long while….'

Horatio pushed the sandwich tray away and swallowed. He was not worried over the success of their nasty little fool's game. He had all the confidence in the world in the supreme accountancy skills of Peter Eliott and his Treasury agents…he was not even worried over the missing head of the body of one Jacov Jarovsky who was actually waiting for Price's full attention in a freezer compartment of the MDPD morgue.

'I am worried about Ryan!' He said softly. These five little words had been the hardest he had said in a long time: He was really worried for his young CSI. He had spend the last night sleepless, sitting on his terrace, watching the stars and reliving literally each and every moment of duress and hardship that had been since the morning when he had hired Patrol Officer Wolfe into his CSI dayshift on a whim, a feeling and Yelina's advise!

Frank tripp seemed to understand Caine's problem even without words. He motioned to regine to keep her peace.' If it would be Berkley, would you worry?' He asked softly.

Horatio snatched a sandwich, took a bit and watered it down with the iced whisky. 'No! Not at all. Jake has been under cover before. He'd be perfectly aware of the danger to go straight into a prison full of dangerous criminals….he'd make provisions…trick the prison personnel…get himself a cell phone and something like a weapon…..he'd know what to do…'

'So you simply have no faith in Ryan's competences and professionalism?' Tripp nagged nastily.

Caine shook his head. 'No Frank…he's good…I'd never ever had taken him in if he'd been average….it is just…..he will be completely alone….I cannot even help him, if he'll be in trouble….'

'Did you ever before!' Tripp enquired heartlessly.

Horatio served himself another Whisky and drowned the glass to the bottom. He had not drunk so much strong alcohol in one single day for at least……25 years. He put the glass back on Regine's low table and sat back in his comfortable leather arm chair. 'I have not, Frank! This is exactly the problem….'

Commander Regine Marais had the most curious feeling that the situation was becoming much too serious for her taste. Caine emptying her whisky bottle as if it were mineral water and Frank looking like the eerie confessor from the horror film 'Omen Part I'. She had to put an end to it and get the guys back to business. 'Michel…!' She hurled after her favourite aid de camp, who had grudgingly switched his FAMAS assault rifle for a kitchen apron,'….three very strong double espressos…ASAP….!'

The young 'Gendarmerie Nationale' officer habitually would have shouted back something very nasty at his boss for her outright 'macho' behaviour but tonight he kept his tongue in check and did what he had been asked to do. The redheaded boss from the CSI Lab –Caine- was truly touching the ground level and he supposed that every sacrifice –even that of his manly pride – had to be made to get him back in the loop and offensive. He put an extra spoon of ultra strong Arabica into the coffee machine filter and pushed the 'Brew' button.

***

Erica Sykes had stopped biting her fingernails at age five. Now she looked at her hands and decided that the only viable option would be to clasp her arms behind her back. Not an advantageous posture for a news anchor in front of a camera….but it could not be helped….the nails were gone.

She had started to munch her fingernails last night in front of her LCD screen reading an e-mail from France send via 'curseoftheskeleton ' and had not stopped ever since. She looked on her wristwatch. Three hours! Then looked at her speaking notes for the two-hundreds time. She wished she had the cats or at least Rick Stetler's soothing presence. The press lounge of MIA had never ever before appeared so menacing to her. The camera man and the sounds guy were sipping Coke. Her assistant was reading a magazine in a corner. She was not aware of the abominable high stakes of tonight's newscast and simply considered this assignment another extra that would bring her nice overtime money.

Erica fumbled the print out of the e-mail from her pocket and read it…..for the one thousands time perhaps. Three simple words….no introduction, no greetings…three simple words: 'I love you!'

She folded the worn piece of paper carefully into a tiny little square and slipped it back into her pocket. This was completely ridiculous…..this was her most precious lucky charm…..She steeled herself, picked up her notes once again and went over them for the 201st time tonight. She had to be perfect…..for Ryan!

****

Ramona Sanchez felt completely drained and worn out. She kissed her to younger brothers softly good night and closed their bedroom doors. Then she prepared a nice cup of tee for Piotr, who was watching over her stout-heartedly, sitting in the kitchen, doing Russian cross words. Lieutenant Horatio Caine's house next door lay in darkness. She had not seen any lights there for the last three days and she started to wonder if the man really lived there or if it was just a fake address. She forced a smile upon her face when bidding good night to Piotr. He did not like US television. They spoke too quickly for him. He could not understand and Ramona had not had the heart to tell him about the three-parts reportage of CBS anchor Erica Sykes or the flash concerning the seizure of a cargo full of arms that obviously belonged to Ivan.

She dragged herself upstairs to her own bedroom. She worried for Ivan. They spend their nights together…each in front of his Blackberry sending mails to the other. Ivan was troubled. He felt insecure. His men inside Bunker Hill were taking their distances ever since Erica Sykes had aired her second reportage. Mr. Alex was still in Washington D.C. together with his IT wizard Daniel Cooper negotiating a huge contract with the US MoD and she did not dare to bother him with her troubles. The kindly Miami lawyer who had negotiated the acquisition of her house had turned slightly pale when she had enquired with him concerning another friend of Ivan's – Vladimir Nevzorov – and he had advised her in a low voice and behind the firmly closed door of his lavish office to not even try to contact the owner of 'The Forge' and Marija Feodorovna, Mr. Alex's granny had only given her a knowing smile and told her to harken to this good advise andkeep qiet.

Ramona flipped on her Black Berry and opened the mail box. Nine new messages from Ivan! Last night, when they had spoken for thirty seconds he had told her to not call, only send mails. The US prisons were equipping themselves with cell phone tracking devices and it became dangerous to stay in touch for more then one minute. She read through his messages. Even Jason Weller, his most trusted friend inside Bunker Hill and a man Ramona had found entirely charming during their few encounters was taking his distances.

She tipped a short message. "Do not despair, my love! I will find a way to get you out of this hell! Trust me."

It took hardly a minute and she could read Ivan's reply." I have always trusted you, Ramona! Be very careful. Do not take any risks. I love you. Forever Ivan!"

****

Dave Benton opened another bottle of ice-cold Spanish sparkling wine that went by the name of 'Frexenete' and was their favourite on hot summer nights. Maxine relaxed in the arms of Michael Travers, who caressed her shoulder length brown hair gently. They had had a wonderful diner! Max had prepared several healthy salads and a delicious vegetarian lasagne with spinach and French goat cheese. Several of her friends from the university fencing club had come with other goodies….fruit salads, cakes, Tofu chilli with red and white beans and home-made bread. The party had been a great success. They had devoured the fine food, drowned many a bottle of European wine and debated in length if CSI Wolfe was a rogue or a hero! After dessert they had taken the vote and Ryan had won at heads length with 100% of his friends believing that all the stuff on TV was fake and everything was just a great set up.

Ryan's fencing partner of choice, Eliott Waters, Florida's fencing hero had declared that no matter what TV tried to tell them, he believed in Wolfe and believed that all this was done to bring down the Russians. Max had agreed with Eliott and Mike had told them that he had observed the IAB sergeant Stetler sneaking silently out of the MDPD building to meet with the CBS news anchor Erica Sykes who did most of the 'Wolfe Bashing' on TV for a cosy 'tete-à-tete' that had looked very much like a strategic planning session.

'I think we should go to MIA and give Ryan some moral support!' Mike Travers said.

'We shall not, Love!' Max interjected. 'Imagine if ever one of the bad guys sees us all smiles and cheers…..that's simply too risky. I think, we shall keep our heads down and try to catch Stetler when nobody's watching. He's not bad at all and if we tell him honestly what we believe, I think he will tell us the truth!'

Benton settled down on the Holywood swing, placing Maxine's bare feet onto his lap. 'Stetler cannot tell us, Max! That would be a terrible risk for Ryan. Tara showed me that body of the Jarovsky man…..it was really gory….his head had been sawed off…..'

'But I want to do something for our friend….'Travers insisted,'…it is simply not fair how Delko walks around and throws mud into Ryan's face at every corner of the street!'

Maxine Valera pulled her legs from Benton's lab and sat straight. 'If we want to do something for Ryan, then we have to shut up, guys! My boss Nathalia BoaVista also does not believe this whole story….but when I told her about my doubts, Nat simply shushed me and told me to let it be and ask no questions….I am not sure, but I believe she knows something and simply cannot tell…and the sergeant who replaces Tripp said that he was on temporary assignment only."

'Where is ol' Frank by the way?' Benton enquired curiously.

Travers shrugged. 'Nobody knows! Probably on the same Treasure Island Lieutenant Caine is living now….he's been with the Chief for an eternity today…then he had spend an hour or so with Stetler before disappearing in a black Sedan with a diplomatic licence plate and a driver."

Maxine became suddenly very lively. 'Do you remember the licence plate, Mike!' She asked her lover.

Travers gave a small nod. Valera held out her hands to her two friends, dragged them from the comfortable swing and into her tiny office. She switched on the computer.

'C-DJ-113!'

Maxine Valera scrolled down the web page gleefully. Finally she found what she was looking for. 'That's the French Consulate Generale at Miami…..Legal Attaché's Service!…Ha…I knew that Ryan was no rogue….' She chuckled evilly. No matter what Delko shouted all over MDPD, she had always known that Ryan Wolfe was a good man. She snatched her little red book from a drawer and opened it under the letter 'S'. Erica had not looked her habitual, arrogant news anchor self over the last few days and she still had her personal cell phone number. 'Wait, guys!' She said,' I will try and check….'

****

Erica Sykes turned as white as a sheet of linen. She re-read the message on her personal cell phone three times….'Gods, Max! Keep your head down and your mouth shut or I will wear black before I shall ever even get an opportunity to wear another colour!' She swore silently. Then –in a nick of time- Erica decided that truthfulness was better then a lie or an excuse. 'You are perfectly right!' She tipped into her Black Berry POA,'….but please….shut up and stop digging…this is not a game, but a question of life and death!' When she pushed the 'Send' button she hoped that Max Valera understood and that her message had not been overly melodramatic. She gave her watch a glance, decided that it was time, motioned her camera man and the sound man over and took up her notes. The LCD panel announced that AF 236 from Paris CdG was arriving right on time.

'Let's go, guys! We have a job to do!' Erica said in a cold voice.

*****

Caldwell smiled at Stetler and Caine. 'Ready to reception the lost son?'

Rick growled.'You keep a straight face and play your part, Caldwell…and you stop bothering serious people!'

Horatio was slightly pale and looked a bit ridiculous with his black suit and his dark sunglasses on a tarmac at 22h30.

Stetler motioned a uniformed police officer to his side, whispered into the man's ear and pointed at a blond head inside the small crowd of journalists waiting at MIA for the rogue CSI from France.

The officer nodded and disappeared discreetly.

'What did you tell him, Ricky!' Caldwell asked curiously.

'Think for thirty-five seconds with that dunce's brain of yours and you know the reply!' Stetler replied nastily. Horatio stiffened. He had absolutely no idea what Stetler and Caldwell were discussing. The Chief had considered it most opportune if he'd be present on the tarmac….the CSI boss to reception the black sheep of the CSI! A wonderful joke…Frank tripp had the better role tonight. He was simply waiting at the French Consulate Generale in Miami for regine to return with the fake extradition papers and see to it that a copy went straight to ASA Derek Powell.

*****

Jean-Paul Moulin fumbled the keys of the handcuffs from his pocket and squeezed Ryan Wolfe's forearm. They were both sitting in First Class with a thick curtain between them and the other passengers and JP had not seen it fit to keep handcuffs on his best friend for 8 hours. The Air France hostess who had been in charge of the two of them had simply ignored the fact that the 'criminal' who was to be extradited to the US with her flight was not kept under very close surveillance. She had treated him like any other passenger, serving drinks and food and assuming that the police officer in the other seat knew what he was doing. She shrugged and gave him a sympathetic grin when the steel hand cuffs once again closed around his wrists.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 39 – Love's Farewell

*

Alexander Sherova slipped through the back door of 'the Forge' and disappeared into the night. He hated it, but it could not be helped if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders….Sherova returned to his car, turned the key and drew onto the street. He owed Eric nothing! The fact that he himself had been born –once upon a time - in New Mexico and was an American citizen was no longer important. The fact that Sherova had come forward, some months ago, and revealed his true citizenship, so that Eric could be released from the immigration facility was even less important; Caine had pressured him and his masters in Moscow had authorised him to comply with the demands of the CSI boss. Sherova still resented the Bay of Pigs in the early 60s, and the fact that the CIA had thrown him over in a nick. He -in turn – had rejected his American citizenship forever and reinvented himself as a Russian….and that he was!

A couple of beers with Eric once in a while and a helping hand to get the boy's sweetheart out of some sordid mess created by sly Alex Danilenko meant nothing…but now Valodija Nevzorov ordered him to hook up for good with his little bastard! He should have drowned the whelp the night Eric had been born….

Sherova drove aimlessly through the streets of Miami for an hour. When the clock in his car showed midnight, he pulled over to the left side, found himself a parking space and switched on his cell. He pushed the speed dial button for Delko. An instant later a drowsy voice answered his call.

**

Ryan tried to blink away the blue dots that swirled around his eyes as the television crews set up their lights. He felt like a wild animal in a cage. Why the few news photographers could not wait for the powerful TV lights , he did not know and didn't bother asking. Anyhow, nobody would answer his question tonight…he was the scoop….the rogue police officer who had been brought back to justice and to Miami. JP glowered at the intruders and kept his hand on Ryan's shoulder, but at this moment in time he was as powerless as Wolfe. Evan Caldwell had a hard expression on his face, when he took the keys for Ryan's handcuffs from Moulin and dragged his 'prisoner' out of the TV spotlights, harshly refusing to comment to the journalists. He played his role very well. Rick Stetler was the one who gave the press statement; Ryan was slightly surprised when he saw with how much ease the IAB turned to the cameras….as if he'd been born to be press officer for the MDPD. His voice was grave but measured, he allowed some journalists – he knew their names and for whom they worked – to ask a few questions. Ryan snatched a short glance at Horatio, who stood stony-faced by the door of a MDPD police vehicle in green and white livery.

Caldwell put his hand on Wolfe's head and pushed him –not so gently- into the green and white vehicle. Then he slipped into the car, sitting to Ryan's right and closing the door shut. Horatio had taken the front seat next to an unfamiliar looking driver in uniform. When the car had speeded of from the tarmac and the TV lights, leaving Rick Stetler behind to amuse the news media, Evan Caldwell gave Ryan a huge grin.

'Welcome back home, son!' He fumbled the keys for the handcuffs from his pocket and freed the young CSI. 'Here we go…and a fine job we did!' He said cheerfully. 'How are you?'

Caine turned around just giving him a hint of a smile and looking strangely uncomfortable. The uniformed driver kept his silence and his eyes on the road.

It took a moment before Horatio could bring himself to say it. The fact that Evan Caldwell was looking at him expectantly, did not make it easier and if he was dead honest with himself, he did not mean it 100%. 'I am sorry, !'

Also he had been feeling bad about the whole business since the very second, when he had come to realise that he had abandoned one of his own for half a day into the hands of one of the most brutal crime organisations of the world, a small part deep inside still resented very much, that Ryan had not told him the truth the morning after and had not called for his help, when he had found the green light written in bold bloody letters on the wall of his bedroom.

'I am sorry!' The CSI boss murmured softly, '…I should have seen, ….I should have asked you the right questions….'

Before Wolfe could react to Caine's words, Evan Caldwell took the floor and pushed a small folder into his hands. 'There's a bit of additional information you may wish to have before we send you off tomorrow morning, Ryan.' He explained cheerfully. 'Until now everything went well and Horatio learned from a source inside Bunker Hill that Sarnoff seems to be on the loose and rather isolate. Also none of the prison guards is in the loop…..in case of emergency….and only then…..there's a former homicide detective on the staff – Neill Hunter! He has not been informed about the true nature of your internship in his facility and he will show you no graces whatsoever, but we are 100% sure that he is 100% clean….he will inform us, this we know for sure.'

Caldwell turned around once again. 'You will be all alone inside, boy! They will all have seen tonight's news cast and be fully aware that you are a cop and that your own have rejected you, because they have all the necessary proves that you are a rogue, corrupted, have falsified evidence for and on behalf of the Russian mob etc. Derek Powell has done an excellent job on all this and the news media have seen to it that even the last dunce head inside Bunker Hill and who has television privilege is fully aware of your 'crimes'…..You keep your eyes open and your instinct fine tuned. We cannot immediately help you, if shit happens. The prison guards most certainly will turn a blind eye on whatsoever…..for them too, you are nothing but a lousy little traitor…. You have to fight for yourself, Ryan! But do not try and challenge Sarnoff….let him come and if he gives you even a minute window of vulnerability……for Heaven's sake…..do not hesitate for a second. From what we learned, the prison guards will probably turn the same blind eye on him……'

Ryan silently accepted the folder and only nodded instead of a reply. He felt a little bit overwhelmed by the strange welcome, Horatio's passive attitude and this most curious reception committee. It was clear that H. had just come as a spectator and because they had asked him. The entire show was clearly run by Rick Stetler and…..Evan Caldwell, the ATF special agent, who had already skilfully orchestrated Horatio's 'death' and a couple of other unspeakable 'BlackOps'. Frank Tripp's absence was less surprising. Ryan knew that during the last two weeks, the old sergeant has been acting as liaison with the French law enforcement people in Miami. He was probably at their Consulate Generale armed with a box full of official seals and stamps requisitioned discreetly in various places and which would make his fake extradition decree so to say 'legal' and allow for his official transfer to the Miami Detention Facility.

After a drive of half an hour –Ryan had been surprised to see that the uniformed officer apparently just turned in circles around MIA – the green and white MDPD car stopped in front of an anonymously looking condo building close to the airport. Caldwell pushed a pair of keys into Wolfe's hands.

'Sixt floor, Ryan! Appartment 604. Tonight you are officially in the hands of my service….for questioning concerning the arms traffic, the stuff we have seized on the 'Sherazade' and your involvement with the Russians….I shall pick you up tomorrow morning at 7h30 sharp. Sleep well, young man!'

Wolfe was pushed out of the police car and left all alone on a badly lightened parking, just like an undesired dog during holiday season. He had no ID, no money in his pocket and not even a cell phone!

***

He shook his head, gave the keys in his hand a curious glance and trotted to the badly lightened entrance of the condo building.

So that was it: He had been deposited in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere and all he had were a pair of keys and a tiny folder with….background information. And Horatio had not even looked at him….just mumbled some empty words about being sorry…..It had been pretty obvious that his boss had not really meant it…..most certainly he had only been sorry to abandon Delko and Calleigh to their own devices while he had been obliged to work with the French, organise this whole set up and assist in the capture of a Russian cargo that smuggled military hardware for Sarnoff and his buddies.

Ryan opened the elevator door and hoped that the thing would not get stuck. Elevators in Miami's lower end condos habitually worked badly and either swallowed their users for undetermined delays of time or did not work at all, leaving geriatric pensioners in front of endless staircases. Even the elevator in Uncle Ron's 500.000 US condo worked only on rare occasions.

****

The building looked almost as old as he felt at this moment. He had had no idea that ATF kept safe houses in such decrepit places. The whole complex was completely anonymous and reminded him of a Moscow construction from the days of Josef Stalin.

Nonetheless, the groggy elevator somehow managed to stumble up to sixth floor and surprisingly Caldwell's set of key opened the flat with the number 604. When Wolfe switched on the lights, the place looked as bleak and as Stalinist as the entire building. The apartment's last makeover probably dated back into the 1950ies…but the entry hall looked clean and he was not immediately assaulted by cockroaches or other vermin.

When he pushed the key back into the key hole to close the flat's door, Wolfe suddenly felt a presence. He groaned softly. Presence or not. He was caught in this condo like a rat in a trap….no cell phone, no weapon, not even a bottle of vodka to drown his misery or hit it over the head of somebody who'd try and off him before he could even set a foot into Bunker Hill. He turned the key in its hole, dropped his arms and turned slowly around…..his guts said, that the presence was not dangerous or menacing, but somehow….surprisingly familiar….

*****

Her hair was still up in the same severe bun she always wore, when appearing on TV. She claimed that it make her look a bit older and more serious then the open locks colour of ripe wheat in midsummer he fancied so much. Ryan hated the dark grey jacket, the grey silk blouse and the ample black trousers almost as much as the bun: It gave her the appearance of the skinny, dangly undertaker in Renèe Goscinny's Lucky Luke comics. At least she had kicked off her professional killer high heels, standing bare footed, silent and vulnerable in front of him.

The expression on her face said more then a thousand words: Grief, despair, longing, anger, fear, guilt and shame all at once. It was a completely unpalatable cocktail of emotions, but Ryan had a certain feeling that his facial expression was unfit for consumption, too. He was exhausted, jet-lagged, bone-weary, disillusioned, bitter, frightened and slowly getting panicky at the idea of what was to come inexorably with tomorrow's sunrise……..and he had most certainly not expected to see her during his last hours of reprieve.

They starred at each other, neither speaking nor moving, like two statues cast in marble.

*****

When Ryan felt her warm, naked body tremble violently in his arms, he had still no idea how they had got rid of their clothes. He only remembered that they never made it into the bedroom of the antiquate ATF safe house. Neither had spoken a single word yet. Where he was concerned, words were not necessary at this moment. He bit down a wince when she dug her slender fingers into a badly mended wound. Dima Belkin's knife had been really dirty. He hurt, but he could not care less. In spite of the sharp pain in his left shoulder he parted his lips for her tongue. He wanted her desperately. When she stroked his face and let her hands travel gently down his arms, ribs and hips he buried his face in her long, soft hair and suppressed a moan. She smelled of jasmine and orange. Her forehead pressed against his chest, her leg over his hip, she kept him in a dead grip, as if she was afraid that he could suddenly disappear in thin air. Erica was light, but her weight and the gentle slow movements of their bodies irritated his broken ribs. Pain and pleasure mixed together were a strangely wonderful feeling!

Ryan had never ever thought of this before; pain and pleasure….Perhaps love came just down to these two basic feelings, which seemed to be inseparably linked with one another. He had never thought of it before in their ten years together, but Erica and him had always been pain and pleasure, even if neither of them would ever have deliberately hurt the other…

His left shoulder protested violently against the ill treatment and Ryan had to brace himself literally against the outburst of sharp pain.

He felt that even the slightest sound would brake the magic of the moment and he simply gave in to relish once again in pain and pleasure, just hoping in some distant part of his brain that he would not get addict to it and over time….yearn for it.

Suddenly a subtle piece of prose by the English author Dame Rebecca West appeared before his inner eye and he knew that there would be times of his life when he'd fight losing battles against this strange taste acquired under strange circumstances. He smiled, remembering the words from 'Black Lamb and Grey Falcon'.

"The problem is, that only part of us is sane: only part of us loves pleasure and the longer day of happiness, wants to live to our nineties and die in peace, in a house that we built, that shall shelter those who come after us. The other half of us is nearly mad. It prefers the disagreeable to the agreeable, loves pain and its darker night despair, and wants to die in a catastrophe that will set back life to its beginnings and leave nothing of our house save its blackened foundations."

These words had been written in 1941and they painted an immensely complicated picture not simply of Dame Rebecca West's own soul but that of all Europe on the brink of the second world war were. They were also much fitting for their situation as it was here and yet....

****

Erica had always been most lovely in the throws of passion; she seemed even more beautiful when passion mingled with fear. The drowsy, lonely streetlamp outside threw just a gentle beam of light over her face and Ryan could not resist the temptation to smooth her long, blond hair away from her face and kiss the small, salty teardrops from her eyes. Taking her in his arms, he laid her gently into the cushions on the cosy settee, which while absolutely tasteless in its colour and more becoming of an exposition on American furniture of the Post-War Decade then an ATF safe house, was at least soft and comfortable.

Morning would come soon enough and while he did not want to think of it, he knew it was a fact. Yet they had some hours of reprieve still left. He read in Erica's eyes that she was unwilling to give the reality of the next morning any thought. Ryan did not lower his eyes when she ran a slender finger over the angry red slash wound over his chest. It was still completely sore and stubbornly refused to mend. His body needed to be touched and to touch, to be held and to hold. Also the twelve hours with Ivan's henchman Belkin were still creeping viciously into his sleep, giving him bad dreams, his rational mind did not allow his body to flinch when touched by a hand. Nonetheless, she put his self-control to a hard test, when she pulled her long legs under and knelt down on the settee, switching on the little lamp on the coffee table.

Ryan had been comfortable in the obscurity of the room, perfectly aware of the fact that the obscurity was hiding what he had been trying hard to forget, but this was not about forgetting. It was about an act of faith.

Two years in a life were nothing….and sometimes two years in a lifetime were eternity!

He had send her the e-mail, but Claire had bullied him into it and therefore it did not count. Before he'd leave her in the morning, he had to know, to be sure of his choices.

He clenched his teeth and stiffened, but he managed to hold her gaze unflinching.

What he allowed her to do was more intimate then sex would ever be. Ryan was very much aware of the fact that he was an extremely physical being. And while he had never been one to sleep around, while with a girl, he had always held it with Anatole France and considered that of all sexual aberrations, chastity was probably the strangest.

Before Erica his 'Leitmotiv' had been that eternal quote of the Marquis de Sade, that '"Sex" was as important as eating or drinking and that …"we ought to allow the one appetite to be satisfied with as little restraint or false modesty as the other." And from the moment they had been both sure, they had both been convinced that what they felt for each other had enough friendship as a base to not built a mansion upon sand the mere physical part of their relationship had been extremely important.

The two years without her had been –in this respect- the hardest challenge of his life. He still held her gaze unflinching and she seemed unwilling to give him the easy way out, switch off the light and simply abandon her body to his.

*****

Erica was perfectly aware of the fact that in ten years…no, it were twelve if she counted their forced separation by act of justice – Ryan for the very first time completely and entirely honest with her.

She had always known that there were things he was hiding carefully…that there was a part of him closed to her…..a door with twelve heavy locks, guarded by a fire-spitting dragon and by unspeakable magic. She had always known and felt that there was another Ryan, another person, close and yet completely remote and somehow she had accepted her fate and contented herself with what he had been willing to give….and yet….

She smiled: She was not hurting him! She knew, for she was as gentle as a feather and hardly even touched the ugly sores, cuts and welts….This was a strange act of faith…he had never ever before allowed her to get this close!

She understood perfectly well what was happening: Ryan's rational mind was done and over with what had happened! If she'd ask him, he'd tell her…detached, cold and in detail, as if he was telling somebody else's story. His mind did not care about what had happened. She remembered the nail and the IR room, when he had almost died and it had taken the surgeons three operations just to put the puzzle together and his bone splinters back in place. After a week, he had asked them to take him off the painkillers, also he had been in pain for weeks after.

Ryan had never been gentle with himself!

Sometimes he gave her this strange impression of a mind detached from the body. He was the only one she had ever loved, notwithstanding the fact that she'd had lovers before Ryan and he was the only one who had never ever lost it! It was strange to come to the point where you realise that you have been sleeping with a guy for more then a decade and he had never ever lost his self-control…not even for a second. And now he was loosing it completely. She had never ever seen him cry, yet he was fighting down tears and he was losing his battle.

Erica shook her head, switched off the light and simply pulled him into her arms. He grew instantly limp, buried his face against her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her as if he were drowning. She felt that words were unnecessary at this moment. She simply rolled over him, pushed him down and parted his lips with her tongue in spite of the pain in her heart: her hands travelled over his skin, down to his hips and she somehow managed to slip he leg underneath and hold him tight, gently moving her body over his and finally Ryan moaned softly as she kissed him again and again, and now it was his tongue seeking access to her warm mouth and him gently exploring her body and she could feel his tears on her naked shoulder…..and for the first time in more then a decade his naked body trembled violently in her arms.

******

When the sunlight crept mercilessly into the small and old-fashioned living room, Erica felt his heart beating softly under his skin. She did not dare to move and disentangle herself from his limbs. He slept soundly and she would not break the spell. She had another hour of reprieve before Rick Stetler would be obliged to take him away. She had not closed her eyes. She felt completely drained, as if there was no marrow left in her bones and she was perfectly aware of the fact that for the first time in twelve years both of them had broken the golden rule. She could not care less and a small voice deep inside her heart hoped that even if he had to leave and go into harms way, something would stay with her………….. no matter what happened!


	42. Chapter 42

Dear Readers,

I am awfully sorry for this long silence, but a lot of work and real-life writing has been taking my time and I simply could not continue this story.

I have not abandoned it and will try to post the remaining chapters little by little over the next few months.

I hope I am pardoned and that you will watch out for the rest of 'Skin the Wolfe' even if CSI Miami has gone into its Season 8 and a very different plotline.

Cheers

Griffon


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 40 Deus ex machina

*

Dan Cooper shook his head in disbelieve. The whole scene in front of the MDPD building seemed completely 'otherworldly'.

"That's impossible!" He murmured softly, placing his glass of orange juice on the table of the First Class Lounge of JFK.

Alijosha Danilenko aka Alex Daniels who had been watching the same news show together with his collaborator, while waiting for the call for their flight to Miami reacted immediately.

"What's impossible, Dan!" He asked the man good-naturedly. He had almost forgotten his troubles down in Miami.

Hardly had they left the Federal Patent Examiners Office, they had signed a juicy contract with the MoD and were now looking forward to several million U$ for a very sophisticated voice reconnaissance system. The benefits from this project would make up for whatever losses the 'Bratstvo' had endured over the blown arms deal of Jakov Jarovsky.

Danilenko had learned of the disaster in his hotel room in Alexandria, but had been too reasonable to react and call Nevzorov in Miami. He had been perfectly unwilling to risk his deal with the US DoD. From his point of view their future was not in illegal meanderings with rogues from rock states or fanatics like the PIRA, but in businesses like this.

Cooper turned to his boss, head still shaking. His right pointed at the screen.

"I have been working with this guy for several years and while it is true that he had a penchant for gambling which got him fired from the lab for a while, he's not the type to hook up with a criminal organisation like the Russian mafia of Miami. This entire thing looks to me like a big set up……'

Danilenko became immediately very attentive. He gave Cooper a most convincing smile.

"Dan, everybody can turn rogue, even police officers. Perhaps he was overwhelmed with debts and this was his only way out."

Cooper shrugged his shoulders. Nothing was impossible. His boss was perhaps right.

" You see, it is just curious that the guy in front of the media, who is holding the press conference is the IAB sergeant in charge of the Crime Lab and not the MDPD press officer. And he's literally playing tennis with Wolfe's ex-girl friend, who is now the CBS news anchor for their lunch time journal. That's not terribly logic from what I know and understand."

Aliosha Danilenko made a mental note to push some investigations as soon as they were back in Miami. What Copper was telling him made indeed perfect sense….and it smelled very, very fishy. He replied with humour.

"Dan, you have left that bunch a while ago….everybody moves on. Why should an IAB guy not get a better job then snooping after his colleagues. The man does very well in front of the press. And why should an ex-girl friend not hold sufficient grudges to berate her ex in front of

some cameras?"

Before he could continue, the flight for Miami was called and he and Cooper snatched their hand luggage to walk over to the check in.

*

They had come together in the morning; Caldwell to pick up Ryan and Rick to provide her with moral support and a shoulder to cry on.

Erica kicked of her high heels and gratefully accepted a cup of tea from her personal assistant.

"We had a skyrocket audience!" The girl told her gleefully. "Already with your subject on the Russian mob we were front running against all other channels, but this morning's press conference in front of the MDPD with that rogue copper who's been working for them……

Erica wanted to strangle her PA. Why couldn't that nasty girl simply shut up and mind her own business. She was in no mood for shoulder slapping and songs of glory. It had taken every bit of her self control not to break down with a fit of nerves in front of the camera when Caldwell had handed Ryan over to the Dade County Prison guard, who had pushed him into the prison bus with an evil grin and a couple of nasty words on his lips. This moment had been even worse then their good bye in the morning.

Ryan had handled the situation much better. He had been completely impassive before the mud throwing press and his mud throwing colleagues. He had neither flinched nor lowered his eyes, not even when his colleague Eric Delko had given him this murderous stare full of hatred. Erica sipped a bit of tea. Ryan had not been impassive when they had made their good byes. She smiles, also something deep inside just wanted to curl up in a distant corner and cry. Her eyes were fixed on the silver framed photograph on her desk. She had to keep faith in him, had to trust him now, had to convince herself that he knew what he was doing. His had always been a rather dangerous line of business. She had covered crime scenes and police work long enough to be very much aware of this fact.

Ryan would do his job and she would do hers…give her very best as a journalist to help him keep his cover inside that hell that was Bunker Hill Detention Facility. Erica switched on her computer and started to prepare her wording concerning the 'Scandal over Rogue Cop at the MDPD". She'd take Rick Stetler's suggestion and make them run the scene from Paris Point Neuf and the brutal kill of fake Tim Belkin. A good deal of men inside the prison would see this news journal and see a cold blooded and ruthless killer. Those of weaker hearts and minds would keep their distances out of fear. It was common knowledge in this brutal and pitiless environment that one who had not hesitated to kill outside would hesitate even less to kill again, once inside and with nothing to loose.

*

Jakov Wolinski aka Jason Weller enjoyed his coffee over one of the sports magazines Baba Danielenko had subscribed for him and which he received via a weekly Amazon parcel. He sat comfortably at a table by the window of the 'privilege cafeteria' to which the best behaved inmates would win access if the guards estimated that they were 'very good boys and no trouble'. Habitually he had not used this privilege in order to stay as close as possible to Ivan, but over the last few days he had considered it politically correct and in line with the 'Bratstvo doctrine' to take occasional leave from his boss. Considering his excellent behaviour and excellent lawyer at 1000 U$ per hour, he knew that he'd be out in no more then 12 months and back in the fold of the brotherhood. He was not incline to risk his own professional future over another of Ivan Sarnoff's blunders. He had even taken a very courageous decision: While he bore a grudge against Ryan Wolfe ever since the incident at Ivan's Fighting Club The Aegean and which was in a certain sense the reason for his imprisonment, although he had not killed Madden, he would not touch the guy or search a fight with him, when he'd arrive at Bunker Hill.

Jakov Wolinski was already unwilling to risk his privileges and anticipated release for Ivan Sarnoff's sake. Even less would he risk it just for the sake of his own pride and over a maggot like Wolfe! He'd rather enjoy watching many others who were already wetting their knifes over grudges against the MDPD in general and this officer in particular. It would be good fun to see them skin the Wolfe!

*

Ramona Sanchez smiled, notwithstanding her heavy heart and her worries for Ivan: Piotr supported by her two little brothers sat high up in the old oak tree they had acquired together with the nice, cosy house. He was happily hammering and sawing and the tree house was already taking a good shape. Babushka had discovered the bio farmer who had his exploitation right behind their house and the prairies and had taken her little dog for a walk. She wanted to buy a good chicken and prepare some good Russian food for tonight's return of .

Thoughtfully the young woman turned a small piece of paper with a telephone number between her fingers. The day before she had lied to both Babushka and Piotr and secretly returned to her old home and some people she would not have approached voluntarily before. But she needed help and quickly. She needed competent help to get Ivan out of Bunker Hill….the sooner, the better. Ramona had spend an entire week mulling things over and making a plan and now the plan was good and mature…especially since she had realized something very curious: Her bank account, habitually fed with her nice salary from and correctly provided with money, considering the fact that she was only a lowly governess and housekeeper from Puerto Rico had suddenly been filled with a hallucinating sum of money. She also owned a deposit box with a lavish amount of bearer bonds. When she had seen the amount, Ramona had almost fainted…..5 million U$.

Ivan had told her during one of their lengthy nightly discussions that he had seen to it that his personal holdings had been transferred to her discreetly, since his personal situation, over some kind of business problem, was turning from bad to worse and that he wished that at least a certain amount of his gains were kept safe and far away from prying eyes. Ramona had sworn him that she would keep his money safe and find a way out for the two of them and the boys. He had sworn her, that he trusted her with his life and that he loved her….no matter what would happen.

And now Ramona knew what would happen: She just needed the courage to call the number on the paper slip, arrange things and within the next four weeks this whole mess would be over for good. She gave a baleful look to the beautiful house. She would miss it, but she was convinced that they would rebuild a new good life for themselves on the other side of the border in Canada….far from troubles, far from Ivan's faithless and disloyal so-called friends and far away from and the MDPD.

With determination she pushed the paper back into the pocket of her trousers and waved cheerfully at Piotr and the boys. 'I will make us some iced tea and a nice salad, guys!' She shouted.

Piotr gave her the thumbs up and waved back.

Now all she needed to do was to find a valid excuse to leave Miami unobserved for three days.

Ivan's brand new false Canadian passport would be ready within a week's time. She did not mind to pay 15.000 U$ for a pristine document. Ivan would approve her spending his money in such a reasonable manner. Then she needed to fly quickly to Montréal. She had already taken the necessary rendezvous in the capital of the large French-speaking province of the neighbouring country: Banker, real estate broker, translator and the owner of a small agriculture enterprise trading seeds and flower bulbs who wanted to retire and sell his business. It was perfect! Nobody would ever look for one Ivan Sarnoff in the far-away Canadian province of Saskatchewan.

*

Rick Stetler felt terribly awkward. It was not so much the press conference and having send Ryan Wolfe off to Bunker Hill detention Facility in an orange bus with iron bars that gave him the creeps. It was also not the reminiscences of an early morning, when a young and very shaken woman had cried on his shoulder, something that had not happened for a very long time in his life. He managed nonetheless to smile at Maxine Valera who handed him a plate with chicken salad on a patchwork blanket under a lush palm tree in the park close to the MDPD facilities. Travers, the UK-born lab technician served him a glass of home made apple juice and the IT-wizard Benton, with his funny pony tail and bright, good-natured smile chatted amiably with him.

While never outright hostile, these three had always been rather prudent around him and his IAB staff, but after the press conference and Ryan's transfer they had suddenly approached him all together and invited him kindly to share their lunch.

Rick tried to figure out this situation discreetly, complimenting at the same moment Valera for the wonderful lunch she had prepared. None of the three tried to talk shop or Ryan Wolfe! Benton was just enquiring with Rick about his past times and leisure and the two others had been hinting at a planned barbecue on the beach next week end and the possibility that Rick maybe would like to join them and a bunch of friends.

He smiled at the three young lab experts, admitting that he was a keen rider, when time permitted it and that he could not understand people who'd spend their free time on a golf course. His brains were working at high speed: Either these three had a tremendous grudge with Ryan Wolfe and were sucking up, because he had put the black sheep into an orange bus or they were completely unconvinced of the whole set up, firm friends of the Wolfe in sheep's clothing and tremendously diplomatic, letting him feel that they had understood the entire set up from A to Z.

Stetler wanted to shudder, also temperatures at Miami were high and his tie was strangling him slightly. He finished his chicken salad, drowned the very good apple juice and accepted a slice of raspberry pie with whipped cream.

His heart told him that Travers, Benton and little Maxine Valera understood that he was no ogre and what had happened in the morning was just a clever police operation against a dangerous enemy. His brains were still hesitant: How could three lab rats understand, what none of Ryan's co-workers – Delko and Dusquene – had understood?

Rick plunged his spoon into the raspberry pie. It was fabulous and the whipped cream was pure delight. He relaxed against the huge trunk of the palm tree, accepted Benton's not so diplomatic invitation to join them at the beach on the weekend and decided that these three were perhaps more insightful and clever then Horatio and his two most favoured CSIs Delko and Dusquene.


End file.
